


The Big Afraid

by seeing-ghosts (saltedshotgun)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Community: deancasbigbang, F/F, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Charlie Bradbury/Jo Harvelle, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedshotgun/pseuds/seeing-ghosts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean likes to mind his own business. Between juggling a daytime job as a mechanic, his secret identity as one of the City's masked vigilantes, and trying to repair the relationship with his brother, Dean doesn't have time for much else - let alone relationships, romantic or otherwise. Castiel is the superhero Dean keeps running into and whose mind seems to be set on befriending Dean, whatever it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Also, I have never been a Superhero, so please excuse any and all inaccuracies I might have made in their portrayal.
> 
> Art created by [gdayidjits](http://gdayidjits.tumblr.com/). Please, go leave a comment on her amazing work [here](http://gdayidjits.livejournal.com/557.html).

In Dean Winchester's experience, bad news comes in pairs; at best, it comes paired up with better news, but in Dean's life, not even that is a given. Hell, in Dean's life, that's pretty unlikely.

There are two voicemail messages left on his machine when Dean crawls into his apartment one night, exhausted and dirty and achy, lip split and nose bleeding. He stares at the green, blinking eye on the phone, eyebrows cocked up, because that damn thing never flashes; who the hell would even leave Dean messages when no one ever calls him in the first place?

He takes his time before he plays them, because whatever they are, they can't be good. He peels himself out of his suit, grimacing when he drags his fingers across the rapidly forming bruise under his ribs, and sits down gingerly by his table on the camping chair Bobby gave him when he found out Dean didn't actually own any real furniture. He just sits there and breathes for a while, wiping the blood from under his nose every once in a while - it doesn't bleed as excessively as it did on his way home, but it's still trickling down Dean's upper lip steadily and it's annoying as hell - and stares at the empty bowl he ate cereal from this morning; his stomach reminds him, with a painful, slow rumble, that it's basically the only thing he ate that day, but Dean is too damn tired, his legs shaking with it, to actually stand up and get something from his ancient fridge. If there even is anything. 

He waits until his eyes are drooping before he leans over and plays the first message; he doesn't even know why, because chances are that he's gonna end up so wound up from whatever news he's been delivered that he won't be able to get to sleep, and he's getting up for work in - oh, less than four hours. 

He presses the play button anyway, resigned all the way to the marrow of his bones. 

It's from Lisa, which is somehow both the most and the least surprising thing about the whole situation. There's crackling on her end for a few seconds and then she says, "Dean, hi. It's Lisa. Listen. I really didn't want to do this over the phone, but getting ahold of you is pretty much impossible nowadays, so it's not like I had a lot of choices, right?" She sounds angry and upset, and both determined and unsure, and Dean knows he's about to get dumped in the worst way possible; he thinks about how much he likes the sound of her voice, despite the circumstances. "And I'm pretty sure you're expecting this but - " she lets out a frustrated sigh, "whatever we were doing, dating, fucking, whatever that thing was, I decided I'm not gonna do it anymore. You keep not showing up and when you do show up you're banged up and can't even explain why, and I - " Lisa pauses for a second, and then continues with a softer tone. "I'm sorry. I'd rather not do this over the phone. Shit, Dean. Call me and we can meet up and talk?" and the message cuts of. 

Dean deletes the message. The hollow, robotic female voice tells him, "You have one message left," but Dean stays down, slumped over the chair. While he was expecting it - has been expecting it to happen ever since he and Lisa got together in the first place - it still comes like a bone-crushing punch to his bruised side. He stares at his bloodied hands, fingernails brown and ragged, and thinks about how much he would love to have a bottle of cheap whiskey to chase the dirty aftertaste out of his mouth. 

He doesn't even check the caller ID before playing the second message, and almost jumps out of his skin when he hears Sam's voice. Sam, who's never even called Dean before. "Uh, Dean, hi. It's Sam? I got this number from Bobby, he said it would be okay if I called you." Sam phrases it like a question, like maybe he's not sure if Dean would like to talk to him, even though it's always been the other way around - and if not always, then in the past few years, at least. 

Dean sits ramrod straight, eyes wide, and thinks, _Yeah, yeah, of course it's alright, you big moron._

"I have some news that I would like to tell you and - " there's a dull thud and some giggling, some murmuring voices Dean can't quite make out, " - and I'd like you to meet Jess, ah, you - you know about Jess, don't you?" The thudding, slapping sound is back, and Dean thinks it must be Jessica, Sam's secret girlfriend, slapping his brother upside the head. Sam laughs before cutting himself off to continue. "So. How about we go to dinner together? Next Friday, The Talbot's? I made reservations. Dress nicely!" and then he's gone again, laughing, and the message cuts off. 

The machine beeps and switches off and Dean is left in the silence of his tiny one-room apartment, his nose still dripping blood sluggishly. He plays the message again, and then one more time; then he goes to to his tiny, filthy bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, because in all the years Dean's been living in the City, Sam's never called him before, much less to introduce him to his girlfriend. 

Dean can't really blame his brother for not wanting anything to do with him; Dean's powers always brought more misery to their family than they did profit, eventually even driving their father away. Dean's willing to compromise to keep Sam happy; if that means Dean stays out of his life, then so be it. 

But if Sam is calling him, Dean's not going to say no; he thinks that maybe he should - if Dean were a better person he would go to sleep and get up the next morning and call his brother to tell him that no, he can't go to dinner with him and his family, because it's too dangerous for them. 

It _is_ too dangerous. Sam and Dean both know it. But Dean is not that person; he's willing to compromise a lot, he's willing to lose a girlfriend over his nighttime activities - heck, he's made peace with the fact that he's going to live alone, and die alone, probably long before his time. 

Sam is the one thing, that one person, Dean can never say no to.


	2. Pt. I

Dean Winchester is twenty-eight years old and living in the biggest, flashiest and dirtiest city anyone could possibly think of. If you asked Dean when he was a kid - ten, fifteen, heck, even twenty - he would have said, "No. No way. Never the City, or any other big city while we're at it. But especially not _the City_. Forget it, Sammy."

Dean was born in Kansas and, following a tragedy that killed his mother and left his father a broken man, lived his entire childhood on back roads and in backwater towns; in skanky motels and the back or front seat of the Impala. Eventually, the Winchesters set camp close to Sioux Falls, but Sioux Falls isn't an overly big city, either. 

Dean liked that; little places, small towns. Big cities never held an appeal, but life is funny like that sometimes - his brother has always been drawn towards the big. Big words, big goals... Big cities. Eventually, Sam left Sioux Falls and Dean behind to search for the bigger and better. And, after their father was gone, too, and Dean realized he'd been left behind, Dean followed him - the only family he had left - and found himself living on the outskirts of the busiest and hottest place on the west coast. 

As it goes, a big city means a lot of people, and a lot of people inevitably means a lot of trouble. 

Dean doesn't know how many times he's been suspected of causing some of that trouble - of being a violent, street-fighting drunk. It happens daily, from the grocery store clerks and the Singer's Salvage Yard's customers; even Lisa came to this conclusion, because all in all, it's much more believable than the other plausible theories, like Dean being a big, clumsy idiot, or Dean being a Super who fights crimes in his free time. 

Dean tries not to to worry about what people think about him. He refuses to worry about what Benny, his co-worker and Bobby's only other employee, thinks of him. 

He does worry about what Jessica, Sam's never before seen girlfriend, will think when she meets him, though, because what Dean sees in the mirror on the next Thursday morning is, by the Occam's razor principle, a violent, street-fighting drunk. 

In reality, Dean's secret isn't a problem with alcohol and a brutal character; his life is pretty boring, actually - except for one thing. 

Dean may fix cars for a living, but in his spare time, Dean fixes people. 

It probably says something about his life, or maybe his personality, that he goes out every night to illegally fight crime and still calls his life boring. 

(As Charlie, Dean's ever-present handler, likes to say, "It's not boredom, Dean. It's loneliness." Which… Fair enough, but Dean prefers not to think about that.)

He supposes it's not that remarkable, though; there have been studies, and according to those, about 2% of the world population are in possession of Powers. Dean doesn't know if he thinks it's bullshit or if he believes it, because he can't think of a Super dumb enough to publicly claim they are one. Dean certainly wouldn't. 

Besides, if they were right, about eighty thousand people in this goddamn city alone would be Supers, which makes Dean's head spin and makes it yet another of the many, many things Dean doesn't like to think about. 

It doesn't say too much about the City if, out of the potential eighty thousand Supers, only a handful that could be counted on Dean's fingers have decided to use them for the greater good - or, at least, not to actively kill people with them. 

But hey, maybe it's not a question of reason or goodness or kindness, but good, old-fashioned sanity. Dean, apparently, doesn't possess a whole lot of it; if he did, he wouldn't be stuck in the situation he's in now with alarming frequency.

Because of course Dean would get himself killed - or _arrested_ in the worst case - two days before he finally gets to see his brother.

 

There is a girl, slumped on the ground with her legs splayed, crying quietly and clutching at Dean's sleeve.

"It's okay," he tells her as she shakes her head, eyes wide in residual panic, and whispers pleas for him not to go yet, not to leave her alone. "You're alright," he says and pries her fingers away. 

"I called the cops," she says in a horrified whisper. There's blood on her face but the wound on her temple is long gone, healed like it's never been there in the first place.

Charlie's voice in his ear urges, "Dean, you gotta get out of there." 

Dean grits his teeth against the curse that's on his tongue - the cops and their eternal hunt for all Supers, complicating Dean's life endlessly. "Means they're on their way, right?" he tells the girl cheerily, ignoring Charlie for now. "They'll get you home. I have to go." 

She croaks out a determined, "Okay," and lets go. Her hands fall to her lap where she's kneeling and Dean pulls away. He glances at the body slumped limply against the wall a few feet away, arms and ankles tied, unconscious, then at the gun discarded further away. 

" _Dean,_ " Charlie repeats, voice tight.

He takes the gun and places it in front of the girl. "You know how to handle a gun?" he asks and she wipes at her eyes, the tears no longer running, breathing calmer. She nods jerkily. "Awesome. Don't touch it, unless you absolutely have to," he tells her. "Give it to the cops." 

He stands up then, pressing his fingers to his right ear. "Where do I go?" he asks.

Charlie curses. "Damn it, Dean, I don't know. They're closing off your escape routes. Go west, make a right the first chance you get." 

Dean breaks into a run, but it's already too late; the police sirens blare to life behind him and Dean swears under his breath, speeding up. 

He finds himself running from police cars and gunshots from police-issued weapons more often than he would like. Not always; sometimes he meets familiar faces who wave him away, or pointedly ignore him, but apparently tonight is just not his night. 

He hides behind a corner and pants, his side throbbing. He huffs a laugh, a sharp release of breath, and pants. "Damn it, my side is killing me." 

"Because you're out of shape," Charlie snaps. "If you move your ass now you might outrun them. You're the Super here. Run, Forrest, run." 

Dean barks out a laugh, blinking a drop of sweat from his eyes. He's a superhero, alright - just the thought alone makes him grin like a lunatic, because his hiding from the police includes climbing into trashcans and sewers, or sometimes dilapidated buildings. It's worked so far, though, so Dean's not complaining all that much; even though Charlie would disagree. 

Tonight, however,... tonight Dean seems to be out of luck, because before he can catch his breath, the pain still sharp under his ribs, the running footsteps are back - just around the corner, echoing off the walls, and there's no trashcan or a sewer to climb into, no ramshackle wall of a ramshackle building to hide in. 

"Up and at 'em," Charlie chirps, going for nonchalant, but the panic is clear in her voice. "I can see another two cops at the end of the street, you could get rid of those, but you gotta move now!" 

Dean mutters, "Here we go," takes a deep breath and runs. 

Dean knows this part of the city like he knows his own apartment. He could navigate through it blind and still be faster than any cop; he's spent years running through it, looking for the fastest shortcut to either get somewhere or get away. 

He climbs over a fence, landing on his right knee and left wrist painfully. He hisses in pain and hears Charlie's panicky voice in his ear, "You're doing fine, don't be a wuss." His eyes water; partly from the pain, partly from fatigue. 

"Easy for you to say," he wheezes, clenching his teeth against the pain in his knee. 

Someone screams behind him for him to stop and Dean runs forward towards the opening to the next street, his exit - ignoring the gun shot that misses him by sheer dumb luck as well as Charlie's vehement cursing and chanting - "Go, go, straight ahead!" - when another police car blocks his way. 

Dean stops forcibly, feet slipping on the gravel as he tries to turn the other way. He yelps, something Charlie will undoubtedly tease him about later - if there is a later, Dean realizes - and stops. There are cops there, too, pointing guns and shouting over the siren. Dean looks up, then to the sides, all the while mindful of the hood on his head, careful not to let it slip off. He swears when he realizes he's trapped. 

Charlie's screaming something in his ear but Dean can't hear her over the rush of blood through his head; he tastes sweat on his lips and feels it sting in his eyes. The suit, stiff and uncomfortable, clings to his skin in places that are really making Dean want to scream in frustration.

Everything seems to stop for a split second. Dean's breathing is harsh and loud, his lungs pulling in air almost painfully, eyes fixed on the gun pointed at him. 

Sam's warned him. Sam has been warning him everytime he talked to Dean for the past four years or so, and Dean's been ignoring him with laughter and teasing. 

"You can't just - disappear or go invisible, you're not super fast, you're just - a guy!" Sam would say. "If they catch you, you're so screwed." 

And Dean would laugh and reply with, "Well, I'm lucky that my brother is a lawyer, right?" 

Sam was right the whole time of course, and _Dean knows it_ \- if he gets caught, by _anyone_ , it's over. Authorities don't like masked vigilantes very much and they don't care that all Dean is doing is _healing_ people. 

"Dean, you can get past them, just zigzag or something," Charlie supplies helpfully. 

From behind Dean, someone yells. "Don't move!" 

It's like a spell breaker; Dean twists back to life and turns on his heel, determined to make a run for it or die trying - and he almost runs into the figure standing behind him, somehow having moved there without Dean even noticing.

"What the - " Dean gasps in shock, reeling back, and hears Charlie do the same; the person stands his ground. Only when Dean's another foot away, putting some distance between them by stumbling back, does he get a good look at him and realizes who it is.

The initial panic ebbs away a little and Dean's shoulders sag. He thinks, _Fucking finally,_ but before he can get a word out, or do much of anything, the man in front of him reaches out with his hand and the world around Dean falls away as if someone plucked him out of it.

And that's how Dean finds himself on the rooftop of the tallest building on this side of the continent. 

 

When there's ground under Dean's feet again, a split second later, he stumbles - the gravel replaced by hard concrete, the dim light of the alley replaced by the bright lights of the City's center. He trips and falls heavily to the ground, scrambling away before he sits, leans on his elbows and attempts to glare at the man in front of him. He fails. 

"Hello, Hunter." 

"You took your time, Feathers," Dean growls, but his voice is weak and breathy. 

At the same time, Charlie chirps happily, "Oh, Lois, your Clark Kent is here," and then she honest to god _giggles_. Dean makes a mental note to explain to her exactly how much he would love to throttle her if he could when he's out of this mess, safe and sound.

The other Super looks amused. "I'm not sure I appreciate your assumption that I will come to your rescue," he says. "And my name is not Feathers," he adds flatly. 

Dean starts picking himself off the ground, determinedly ignoring Charlie's excitement. He groans in pain when he tries to put more weight on his right elbow; from the way it's throbbing Dean suspects it's bruised, if not dislocated. 

"Well, you don't look much like an Angel," Dean retorts, partly because he likes to take a piss out of the other Super, but mostly because it's true. Superheroes, the handful the city has, hardly get to pick their own name. The only one Dean can think of is Bela, who likes to leave notes with her name at the crime scene, whenever she swipes something valuable. Other than that, Supers earn their names - like Dean did. 

As for Angel, Dean can't possibly figure out which derailed mind gave him that particular pet name. When Dean thinks of Angels, he thinks of his mother's golden hair and kind smile, of fluffy wings, halos, of divine light. _This_ Angel is nothing like that; the dark suit, streaked with blue, dark unruly hair and face always hidden by shadows. 

He looks like the Angel of death, if anything. Currently, he's glaring down at Dean. "So I'm told," he says dryly, and then frowns at the way Dean is clutching at his elbow. "Are you hurt?" 

"Not more than usual," Dean says. He tries not to jostle the elbow too much as he stands, and looks around, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Did you just drop me on top of the tallest skyscraper in the City?" 

"Obviously," Angel replies. "Were I in your place, I wouldn't be too picky." 

Dean shoots him a glance, going for a scowl, but then his eyes dart to the side again, looking over the skyline. It's breathtaking - they're so high, the wind blowing around them, and Dean's legs feel a little wobbly, a little uncertain where he stands. "So what," he says, "you were just in the neighborhood, decided to drop by, save the day?" 

"Basically, yes. I heard the sirens and decided to see if I could assist the police in any way. Instead, I found - you." He shrugs; after a beat, he adds, "Again." 

"Don't be so smug about it," Dean retorts. "It's starting to look really suspicious, you know? My handler thinks you're stalking me." 

Charlie, sounding affronted, says, "Hey, don't drag me into this!" 

"Maybe I should just give your handler my contact so I wouldn't have to _stalk_ you anymore. They could just call me whenever you got into trouble." 

"Ha," Dean barks, wincing at the sharp stab of pain in his side. Great; exactly what he needed. More bruised ribs. "I thought you weren't at my beck and call." 

"I'm not," Angel replies and now it's his turn to scowl, and Dean feels prouder about this than he probably should. As much as he appreciates the guy for saving his bacon countless times over the years, he also sort of despises him a little. 

Dean's a lot of things, but he's not anyone's Lois Lane.

 

Dean first met Angel years ago, when he was just a lonely nobody with a sock over his head and no idea what he was doing; and their first encounter was everything but friendly. To be perfectly clear, Dean is thankful that Angel showed up back then and saved Dean, much like he did now, when he'd gotten into really big trouble, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. 

Dean's life had been in shambles back when he started; after his Dad disappeared - he was just gone one morning, without a goodbye and without a trace - Dean spent months looking for him, and failed. Desperate, Dean followed his brother and moved into the City, but that only seemed to annoy Sam. 

Driven by guilt and desperation, Dean put on the first version of the costume he's wearing now - a sock and a hoodie, old, worn jeans - and went out;. Dean's man enough today to admit that back then, that first act of heroism was suicidal more than anything else, and that night, years ago, Dean almost succeeded in his unwitting attempt to croak. 

He bit off more than he could chew with that particular Hunt, and if it weren't for Angel, appearing out of nowhere like a dark figure of vengeance, Dean would have been dead. Angel grabbed him and flew him out of there then basically threw him onto the ground, like Dean was a bug Angel was so kind as to pick up and kick out of his house, his territory, rather than just kill and flush down the toilet. "Stay out of situations you cannot handle," he told him, coldly, and disappeared. 

Dean swore to himself in that very moment, that he _wouldn't_. Just to spite the dude. 

And so here he is now, four years later; very much still alive and the City's perfectly respectable vigilante, currently camped by his working table, staring into the papers with his feet propped up. Bobby, who is much more like Dean's surrogate uncle than his boss, is currently glaring daggers at him from his own working space which Dean pointedly ignores; Benny is whistling loudly from under an old Taurus. 

Dean notices the both of them eyeing the bruise on his temple, but neither say anything, both used to Dean coming in banged up to hell. 

"So," Dean says, loud enough for Bobby to hear over Benny's joyous whistling, "Sam called me up about a week ago." 

The look Bobby gives Dean is so surprised Dean almost feels offended. "Did he, now?" Bobby says, arching an eyebrow. "What did the idjit want?" 

Dean shrugs, trying to look neutral and not like an overeager puppy. "Don't know. We're meeting up for dinner tomorrow. Jessica will be there," he adds, pretending to stare at the newspaper while carefully gauging Bobby's reaction. 

Dean didn't know Bobby's eyebrows could go any higher on his forehead, but like a lot of things, Dean was wrong about that, too. "Are you serious?" Bobby spits and Dean frowns. "Jessica, as in the mysterious girlfriend Jessica? The one he's been protecting from our curious grasps for years now? Did he get swapped by a doppelgänger? Did he hit his head?" 

Dean levels Bobby with a scowl. "Yes, that Jessica. Unless Sam has another girlfriend named Jessica stashed somewhere just for this occasion." 

"I wouldn't put it past the kid," Bobby says, frowning. He waves his hand when he notices the way Dean's face falls. "Don't look surprised, boy. That kid was just about ready to move to Europe to get away from - " and then Bobby abruptly stops in his tirade, shooting Dean a worried glance, like he realized he said too much. 

"Yeah," Dean croaks and clears his throat, feeling like the ground has been dropped from under him. Because Sam was just about ready to move to Europe, as Bobby put it, to get away from Dean. And honestly, Dean hardly needs the reminder. "Can hardly blame the kid, right?" he adds, mockingly, and fold his papers and gets up, stretching carefully, mindful of his bruises. 

Bobby is watching him and if there's regret on his face, Dean ignores it for now. They'll be fine come Monday, because that's how it always is with him and Bobby - and it's not like he said something untrue, or some big dumb secret Dean wasn't aware of, or, hell, something Dean didn't deserve in the first place. 

Dean feels bad that he's about to storm out on Bobby, when all the guy ever does is try to keep Dean in check. 

Benny stopped whistling and is now peeking from under the car, and Dean ignores him, too. "Well, I'm gonna head out," Dean says, voice light and pace fast as he collects his shit from around the shop. 

"Dean," Bobby starts, and Dean cuts him off. 

"No, it's alright." Dean turns to him with a grin. "I'm gonna go home and prepare for my date with my body-swapped little brother and his pseudo-girlfriend." He turns around and walks away with a little wave and, "See you on Monday." 

Before the doors close behind him, he can hear Benny's voice. "Nice job, chief," and Bobby's unclear, muffled grunt as a way of reply.

 

By the time Dean's almost ready for the night - wearing the only suit he owns, worried the old, faded thing won't be enough to please Sam or the ridiculously overpriced restaurant he picked - he's sure that his brother is actually playing some complicated joke, and that Dean is the butt of it. 

He's about to grab the keys to the Impala, stomach so upset with nerves it feels tied up in knots, when his cellphone crackles to life in Dean's pocket without him so much as touching it. "So I see the plans for tonight are still in motion," Charlie says, muffled, before Dean fishes his phone from his pocket. "I'm taking tonight off, just FYI," she spells out. "Don't you dare call me up in three hours to tell me that the dinner went badly and we're going Hunting." 

Dean groans. "Sure, Charlie." He says, and then, because he's in a bad mood, "What do you even do on your nights out? Stay at home and watch Star Trek on repeat?" He's met with silence and instantly regrets his words, dragging his palm down his face tiredly. "Sorry," he says. "I'm being shit to you."

Charlie, to her credit, just says, "Wow, someone's nervous," but doesn't pursue the topic further. Instead she adds, "And for your info, I have a date tonight. Not like your, _'I'm meeting my brother and his GF,'_ not-a-date, but an honest to god _actual_ date." She sounds proud of herself, and then her voice drops a little and she adds, "Besides, I'm marathoning Game of Thrones now, not Star Trek." 

Dean chuckles under his breath as he closes his front door behind himself. "Of course you do." Then he says, louder, "So an actual date, huh? Is she pretty?"

Charlie replies, slyly, "Very," and proceeds to babble about her date's beautiful blonde hair and gorgeous smile. Dean listens to her with a smile, feeling happy for her and pathetically sad for himself, and he's almost at the parking lot where he leaves the Impala when Charlie announces she needs to start getting ready, too. "Good luck with your brother," she says, sincerely, and then she's gone, leaving Dean in complete silence, standing by his car. 

 

The first thing Dean notices when he sees Sam is how freakishly giant his brother's gotten. He must have hit his latest (and his last, Dean hopes, given that Sam is now basically towering over him - and Dean's not exactly short either) growth spurt sometime in the past three years, because the last time Dean saw Sam with his own eyes he might have been freakishly tall, but his shoulders were slimmer and he didn't give off the vibe that he spends most of his time in the gym rather than an office chair. 

The second thing he notices is that that Jessica Moore, as she introduces herself, is blindingly beautiful. 

"Whoa," Dean says with a grin, shaking her hand; he's painfully aware of the way Sam is watching them like a hawk, shoulders squared and wound tight like he's prepared to bodily put himself between the two of them. "Let me tell you, you are way out of my brother's league," he says and winks at her before giving his unamused brother a grin.

They walk into the restaurant, and Dean immediately starts feeling way out of his element. He can't help but listen to his hunting spidey senses as they walk through the establishment to get to their reserved table, and he measures the room,searching out every emergency exit and anyone looking the least bit suspicious. 

They get seated; Dean's palms are sweaty and he realizes that he might have tied his tie too tight, judging by the way he's having problems breathing. It's almost funny, because Dean goes out every night wearing the tight, slightly ridiculous Superhero outfit made out of spandex and leather and kevlar and god knows what else, and he's much more comfortable donning that than he is wearing a tie. 

He watches Sam, perfectly fine in his perfect Eldredge knot, whispering over the wine list with his girlfriend, and wonders if they've really grown too far apart to have anything at all in common. 

He lifts his eyes to look around the room, desperately looking for some kind of anchor in this situation, for anything he would find familiar; what he finds instead is a man, sitting two tables over, watching Dean with a curious expression. If Dean was looking for anything known to him, this was it - although he can't exactly put his finger on what is so familiar about the man. It sets him on edge; he can feel a chill run down his spine as he goes through all the possibilities - is it someone Dean saved? Is it someone Dean beat up? 

It might be one of the Yard's customers or someone Dean just met on the street or while doing one of his rare grocery runs. He just knows, even from across the room, that he's seen this particular set of shoulders, that particular frown and lips drawn into a tight line. He just doesn't know where. 

He catalogues the man's companions; a red-haired woman with a glass of wine in one hand, and a lean blond guy in a v-neck and a black jacket. Then he considers the man himself; his bright blue eyes, the ill-fitting dress shirt he's wearing, the tan trenchcoat thrown over the back of his chair and pooling around his ankles on the ground.

He meets his eyes. The man looks away. 

Dean's torn out of his thoughts by Sam's voice. "Dean." 

He turns to Sam, eyebrows raised, his smile apologetic. "Sorry," he says. "What'd I miss?" 

"We're ordering drinks," Sam says stiffly, and, oh. 

Dean turns to to the waitress and says, "I'll have a beer, please," with his most charming smile. Apparently, those don't work as well in Michelin-starred establishment as they do in tiny diners, because his order only earns a raised eyebrows from the woman and a frown from Sam. 

Neverless, when their orders are done and the waitress leaves, Sam's scowl schools into something less hostile. Dean only barely resists the urge to turn back to the Trenchcoated guy; instead, he keeps his eyes on Sam and Jess, who exchange a look. 

Sam nods, but it's Jess who starts speaking. "Dean, I know we don't really know each other, so I know this might come as a shock to you, but - " 

"We're getting married," Sam cuts in, and Dean's eyebrows nearly fly off his head altogether. 

Jess gives Sam a nasty look before turning back to Dean. "Dean, I know this might come as a bit of a shock, but - " 

Sam says something, then, and Jess snaps back; Dean's not really listening to the conversation anymore, still reeling from the news. 

Dean thinks he should be affronted by Sam's - shit, Sam's _fiancée_ patronising him, like he's a wilting flower who might get his feelings hurt if they're too upfront with him, but mostly he just likes her for considering that he's Sam's family and this might - and did - come as a bit of a shock, as Jessica herself put it. Part of Dean wants to blurt out, _But I don't even know you,_ but the look Sam is giving him tells Dean that that is exactly what he's been expecting, and Dean is determined to prove him wrong. 

Dad didn't always know how to respect Sam's wishes, and Dean doesn't always know how to do that in extension, _especially_ when it comes to Sam's safety, but he will respect this one. 

Sam and Jessica are arguing in heated, albeit hushed, hisses; Dean clears his throat and says, "Guys, that's great," in a hoarse voice. 

They both look up and at him, eyes wide, and Sam says, faintly, "It is?" 

Dean molds his face into a grin. "Yeah," he says, steadier now, "of course it is! I'm happy for you. Congratulations, little brother." Then he turns to Jess and says, "Condolences," which prompts a surprised laugh out of her and a glare out of Sam. 

"I meant what I said, Dean," Jess says when her laughter has died down, but her eyes are still kind. "I know Sam is your family, and - I mean, I don't have an extensive family myself, and I thought it would be good if we could get to know each other. Before the wedding." 

Sam is watching Dean, eyes squinted in suspicion, and Dean tries to look as reassuring as he can. "Of course. That would be - I'd like that," he finishes, croaking out through a throat too tight. They fall into an awkward spell of silence, and all of them breathe out an air of relief when the waitress returns with their drinks. 

Dean's attention drifts back to Mr. Trenchcoat; he catches him watching him again, and this time his gaze holds for a little longer; he cocks his head to the side little, like a curious animal, and frowns. Dean grits his teeth and wracks his brain, trying to remember where he knows him from because it feels important somehow. 

"Dean." 

Dean almost flinches at the sound of Sam's voice this time, having been lost in his thoughts. "Yeah," he says. "Sorry, I - I had a long week." He drags his hand down his face, closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure. When he looks up again, Sam is watching him with disapproval, and Dean is once again reminded how abnormal his relationship with his brother has gotten; that Sam doesn't want Dean around not only because of all the black water under the bridge, but because Dean puts himself and his family (now apparently including one Jessica Moore) at risk by simply being in their presence. 

It's maybe this that makes Dean remember think of his run-in with Angel only nights ago, and then look over to the other table by the wall that's been drawing his attention since they got here,. but it's It's that moment when the answer hits Dean like a freight train. 

He cranes his ears and, over the general hum of the restaurant, hears the blue-eyed, black haired man say, "That is very much not a good idea, Anna," and Dean knows that voice. 

His vision greys-out around the edges; he jerks to a stand so fast and sharp he hits the table with his thighs. Jess and Sam flinch and Sam says, "Dean, what the hell," but Dean is already one step too far to stop. 

He turns only halfway, waves a hand that _doesn't_ shake in Sam's general direction. "I'm fine, I just gotta go talk to someone," and he does, walks straight to _Angel's_ table; Angel, who is fucking _everywhere_ and who's watching him now, shoulders slumped and a little resigned, who looks nothing like a hero in that moment - just a guy in a trenchcoat and a crumpled tie with blue, tired eyes. 

Dean ignores Sam calling his name and Jess talking to Sam in a rapid, hushed voice; he stops right over the other table and directs at Angel, tone clipped and angry, "You. We need to talk." 

The entire population of the table turns to Dean; the other man, a tall, lean blond that doesn't even bother to put down his glass of wine before turning, asks, "And you might be?" with a breathy, British accent. The redhead stares at Dean with wide, blue eyes, looking stricken. 

Dean glares at him briefly, not that it seems to phase the guy any, then he turns back to Angel, who's holding his beer in loose fingers and watching Dean with a resigned, almost pleading look. 

"Outside," Dean growls. 

Angel says, "Of course," and lowers his gaze as he rises from his chair; the British guy says, "Whoa, wait a minute, who do you think _you_ are?" but Angel holds out his hand in a placating gesture. "Balthazar, it's fine." Then he turns to Dean, meeting his eyes. "We know each other." 

Balthazar is frowning, obviously displeased, while Angel manoeuvres away from the table and starts walking towards the exit; Dean trails behind him, mentally pep-talking himself into his righteous anger. 

It works. As soon as they're outside and adequately far from any prying ears, Dean pushes the guy into an ally and, fists twisted in the front of the man's tan trenchcoat, he slams him against the wall hard enough that, for a second, he worries about hurting him. "What the hell?" he demands, voice low and growly and dangerous. 

Angel is wide-eyed,; surprised. He doesn't try to break Dean's hold on him, or disappear, or do anything, really. He stands there and holds Dean's eye. "Hunter," he starts. 

Dean slams him against the wall again. "Shut up," he barks, even though he knows there's no one around to hear. "What the fuck? Are you stalking me? What the fuck are you doing here?"

The shock and surprise are slowly draining from Angel's eyes, leaving behind the indifference Dean's used to. "I am here with my friends. As I am every Saturday night. Hunter - " 

Dean doesn't slam him against the wall this time, but he tightens his fingers on Angel's coat and tugs hard enough to stop him from talking. "I'm supposed to believe this is a coincidence, huh? That you just show up wherever I fucking go, and it's, what, an accident?" Dean is gritting his teeth so hard it's almost painful, pushing the words out through them so that they come out low and quiet. 

"Yes," Angel says and he's slowly starting to sound annoyed. "I do not follow you; I merely run into you because you and I share the same line of work, so to speak. I only ran into you tonight because your - _friends_ seems to frequent the same restaurant I and my friends do." 

Dean stares at him for a moment, lips in a tight line; he lets his breath out through his nose and lets go of Angel's trenchcoat. He steps away and turns around, screams, "Fuck," his head thrown back. 

He is so screwed, and what's worse, he dragged Sam and Jess into it. This is exactly why he's always been told, by his Dad when he got drunk and by Bobby when he found out: _you don't mess with other Supers._ It doesn't matter if they're the good guys; they aren't to be trusted. They're a threat. 

"Fuck," he mutters again, a sick kind of dread settling in his gut, at the back of his mind. "Fuck!" 

"Hunter," Angel says and Dean spins around. 

"Don't call me that here," he hisses, because Angel is fucking crazy, does he know nothing? 

"What should I call you, then?" Angel asks. 

Dean shakes his head. "You want me to tell you my name? Do you think I'm _suicidal_?" 

He closes his eyes and leans against the wall opposite from where Angel is standing, closing his eyes and fighting against nausea and dread and panic. 

There are a few moments of silence, and then Angel says, "Castiel." 

Dean opens his eyes. "What?" 

"Castiel," Angel repeats. "My name." 

Dean stares at him for a moment, still thinking, _What?_ "Castiel? Are you messing with me?" Dean asks, because there's no way this dude with a crumpled tie and a creeper's trenchcoat is named _Castiel_. "Isn't that, like, biblical? Because, dude, I am so not buying that you were named after an _angel_." 

Angel's - Castiel's - eyes widen for a fraction of a moment, like he's surprised Dean knows that, but he looks pleased, almost _fond_. "It seems that my life is founded on a random series of coincidences," he says in a flat tone, sounding like he had to explain this too many a time to still find it amusing. "If you wish to see my ID to make sure - " He starts rooting through his pockets. 

Dean's lips, despite himself, curl into a little smile. "Nah, it's okay, I believe you. I guess," he says, but somehow, the fear that had its grip on him since he realized who the guy sitting two tables over is, is disappearing. It's hard to be afraid of a dweeb with an oversized trenchcoat and the most unruly hair Dean's ever seen, even compared to Sam at fifteen.

"So," Angel - _Castiel_ \- says after a beat, "it is only fair that you tell me your name in return." 

Dean scowls and takes a deep breath, but the decision is taken out of his hands when Sam peeks around the corner. "Dean?" 

Dean glances from Castiel to Sam and back, licking his lips. Castiel - Dean thinks how much he would like to try the word out, to find out how it would feel to say it out loud - looks as impassive as ever. Dean huffs out a laugh, a little bitter. "Guess mine is kind of boring in comparison, eh?" he says, trying for a smirk but failing. 

"I like it," Castiel says, nonplussed, and Sam clears his throat. Dean turns to him and knows, upon seeing his brother's thunderously dark expression, that he screwed up everything he might have gained back tonight. 

"Castiel, could you leave us alone?" he says, still facing Sam. 

He hears Castiel reply, "Of course," and flickers his eyes towards him; he can't find the strength in him to form a smile, though. "I'm certain we will see each other soon," Castiel says, and Dean is in agreement with that; they always do, no matter where they go, they always run into the other eventually. 

He turns back to Sam when he hears the sound of Castiel's footstep retreating back towards The Talbot's. "Sam," he says, sort of preemptively, resigned. 

"Who was that?" Sam replies curtly. 

"No one." 

"Don't bullshit me," Sam hisses and takes a step closer to Dean. "Is he a Super?" 

Sam is wearing the same face he mastered very early in life, the one that always meant, 'Did you screw up by using your powers when you shouldn't have so that we have to move again, Dean?' and Dean finds himself helpless against it, and too fucking tired to even lie. 

"Yeah," he says. 

Sam's face darkens even further. "Does he know who you are?" he spits out, like it's the biggest, dirtiest skeleton in their family's closet; Dean's powers, his abnormality, one of the many reasons why Sam's life sucked so much for so long, and while not the only reason, not by a long shot, definitely one of the easiest to blame. 

"Yes," Dean says, scowling now, too. He's exhausted of being defensive, for being sorry that this has happened to him, that he's putting everyone around him in danger's path just by being near them. He's too fucking tired of apologizing for trying to do some good with what he's been given. 

Sam opens and closes his mouth, shifts on his feet; he looks too angry to even form words. "I knew, I fucking _knew_ , you would do this," he says, and Dean whips his head to look at Sam. Before he can say anything in his defense, Sam goes on. "I let Jess talk me into this, because she thinks that we'll be happier with more family in our lives, that it would be good for us, but I should have fucking know you'd pull this shit." 

"I didn't pull anything, for fuck's sake," Dean snaps back. "I can't help this anymore than you can help meeting your fucking uppity lawyery friends from work!" 

"My uppity fucking colleagues don't have the means to kill us, Dean! Damn it, how can you be sure you can even trust that guy? And he saw me, and he saw Jess - " 

"I'm pretty sure I can trust that guy," Dean says, voice low and dangerous; he's not entirely up for relaying his and Angel's - _Castiel's_ \- whole history, but if he's sure about anything, it's that Castiel is one of those very few Super he might actually be willing to trust. 

"'Pretty sure' is not good enough," Sam says. "You know what is good enough? Being removed from this shit, from Dad's giant revenge plan and your attempts to get yourself killed in your quest to prove that you're not worthless to yourself." 

Dean steps back; he grins, ironically, feeling the cold already settling in his chest. Sam looks taken aback for a second, regretting his own words, but the expression is gone as fast as it appeared. "You know what?" Dean says. "You're right. Turn around and walk away, Sam, and pat yourself on the back for a job well done; you tried welcoming your good-for-nothing fuck-up of an older brother back in your life, and failed miserably because I'm set on destroying every good thing you ever made for yourself." 

Sam's face falls and then hardens back with anger. He spits, "Okay. I should have done that a long time ago, anyway." He's obviously determined not to back down, but so is Dean; they never could step back when they were fighting, and it's only been getting worse the older they get. It's hardly surprising they wouldn't start now. 

Dean looks up at Sam. "I think you already have," he replies, stone cold; his chest is tight, the dull ache spreading up his throat already, and if his eyes sting, Dean's determined not to let Sam know. 

Sam had apparently decided that Dean would fuck this up before they'd even started their meal, given the hostile glances he'd been throwing his way the entire time. 

He steps around Sam and goes back inside; Castiel's table is already empty, and Jess is sitting alone by their table, looking nervous; she's playing with a strand of her hair, and when she sees Dean approaching she stands up. 

"Dean," she starts. "What happened? Where's Sam?"

Dean goes for his jacket. "Sam and I came to an agreement," he says without looking her in the eye. "It's better if I stay the hell away from you both, because I'm just a violent drunk who likes to pick fights." He laughs at his own joke; Jess makes a soft, surprised noise at the back of her throat. Dean turns around and sees Sam making his way towards them. He ignores him, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. "It's been nice to meet you," he tells Jessica sincerely, because he's at least glad to know that Sam's in the hands of a woman who's beautiful and loyal and has a sense of humor. "I hope you can be perfectly normal and happy." 

He turns around and walks away, brushing past Sam on his way.


	3. Pt. II

He wakes up the next morning to the sound of Charlie's angry voice through his home sound system - which, in reality, just mean the tiny speakers connected to his heavy, ancient laptop. 

"You went hunting without me?" she booms, angrily. 

Dean attempts to sit up and groans when his muscles start protesting; the bruise on his right side is now blackish purple and stretching almost the waistband of his boxers. Dean knows a thing or two about injuries and he's pretty damn certain that he doesn't have any internal damage; if he were anyone else, he would be pretty worried. As it is, he just flops back down onto his mattress. "I most certainly did," he grunts in reply. 

"You are an idiot," Charlie says heatedly. "You could have gotten yourself killed!" 

"Call me when that's bad news," Dean says, and thinks it's too soft for Charlie to hear; he's wrong. 

"You're not being funny," she says and she doesn't sound amused in the slightest. "But okay, two can play that game - you could have gotten _arrested_." 

"Okay, Hermione. Now we're talking," Dean says, grinning at the ceiling; he doesn't feel particularly amused, though. 

There's a beat of silence between them, and then Charlie sighs; the sound is obnoxiously loud through his speakers. It crackles, but Charlie must have heard the reverberation because Dean can hear the static decreasing in volume as she turns it down, and the next time she speaks, it's with considerably less volume than it was before, both in loudness and emotion. "So I take it the dinner didn't go well," Charlie says. 

"Let's just say that I hope your date went better than my dinner." 

"Judging by the way you went berserk earlier, I don't think the bar was set too high in the first place." 

Dean covers his eyes with his hand and laughs; it's oddly breathless, sounding painful even to Dean's ears. "No," he croaks. "It wasn't." 

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Charlie asks. 

Dean frowns. "No. I'm sure The Talbot's has security cameras set up. You can look it up yourself." 

"I'd much rather hear it from you," Charlie says lightly. 

"There's not much to say, really," Dean says, and realizes how untrue that is as soon as the words leave his mouth. "Actually," he adds and sits up with a pained sound. Getting up from the ground is gonna be a bitch today; Dean regrets not buying a bed frame yet. Sleeping on a bare mattress in the middle of the floor is not really comfortable when you spend most of your days bruised all up to hell. "Actually," he repeats when he's sitting up. "You should look up those recordings anyway. I met Angel." 

Charlie shrieks, "What?" 

"Yeah, he was there with some friends. His name is Castiel," he adds. "You could look him up so that we know who we're dealing with?" 

Charlie hums and Dean can hear the soft clicking of a keyboard; which is about the only thing that makes him at least 20% positive that Charlie is an actual human being and not a computer program designed to drive him nuts and save his ass.

Dean sighs and pushes himself to his feet. "I freaked and dragged him outside," Dean says. Then he adds bitterly, "He saw Sam and Jessica, which is exactly why everything went to shit." 

"I'm sorry," Charlie says. 

"Yeah, yeah. It's not like Sam's not being reasonable. I'm pretty much a liability to his family, and his career, and - " Dean cuts himself off with a shake of his head. _He_ is Sam's family.

Charlie stops typing for a while and is silent for a moment, hesitant; she decides not to grace Dean with a response, though, and he's stupidly thankful for that. Instead, she says, "It's kind of cute how you and Angel keep meeting whenever you go. It's like you're meant to be." 

Her voice is mockingly dreamy, and Dean deadpans, "I'm going to kill you," making her laugh. "I'm serious. I will find you and murder you in your sleep. I'm good at that." 

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Macho Man," Charlie says, still chuckling. Then her tone turns serious. "But you do realize that there is nothing wrong with - "

"But you do realize that he's a smug bastard who's stalking me?" Dean cuts in, and then, in an attempt to switch topics, asks, "Speaking of stalkers, how was your date?" 

"I don't understand how those two are related," Charlie says, sounding mildly offended. "But it was good," she says. "It was really good, if you know what I mean." 

"That's great," Dean says. "I don't need anymore details, though. Unless you have a video tape." 

"You're a pig," Charlie says. "Wait - did you say video tape? _Video?_ Oh, god." She groans. "I so know what I'm getting you for your birthday." 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a dinosaur, I live in a different century, we've been through this already. Let's talk business now. Anything new on the case?" 

Dean and Charlie have a very impressive list of solved crimes; broken up gangs, serial killings, even a few rogue Supers behind the bars, although Dean generally tries to avoid those, unless they get in his way. It's pretty impressive for a dude with practically no combative Superpowers - that he would like to use, anyway - and a girl that sometimes sounds like she's barely legal. Dean is pretty proud of his track record in saving people and hunting the bad guys; it's about the only thing in his life he can be proud of. 

Their latest case, though, is a tough nut to crack. Even with all of Dean's skills with field work and Charlie's crazy computer mojo, they can't seem to find any solution. The papers call it _The Serial Fires_ , and once again hit the nail on the head; serial fires are exactly what is happening. The pattern is always the same; the same M.O., similar locations, and each time the death toll is sky high. 

Dean's seen his fair share of house fires - the first one when he was four, so he knows exactly what he's talking about - but none of them had ever been as destructive and damaging as the ones the City has been dealing with the past few weeks, and none of them had been as fast and sudden - buildings going up in flames in a matter of minutes and, once, burned down to its metal skeleton and dust before Dean even got to the crime scene. 

As if pulling dead and half-dead kids, old ladies, and cats out of burning buildings weren't enough to give Dean the creeps, the fact that there's undoubtedly a Supernatural element involved in the case certainly is. Dean's a good fighter, has been trained to know how to take care of himself since he was a kid, but Supers are usually way above his paygrade. And besides, Dean is more or less grudgingly aware all of those that operate in the City, so if they're dealing with a Super, it's someone completely new. 

New Supers, especially the villainous ones, are never good news. 

Given all those circumstances, Dean's not all that surprised when Charlie says, "No," in a clipped, serious voice. "I have a few security camera recordings and some new police reports, but nothing useful as far as I could see. I'll get them to you so you can check them out yourself." 

Dean nods, gritting his teeth. "Okay," he says. This is how he spends his Saturday afternoons; watching boring security footage and flipping through boring police reports. "Gimme those, I'll take a look while you try to dig up something on Castiel." 

"Castiel," Charlie repeats slyly. 

"That's his name." Dean frowns, and blushes; he's certainly gotten used to being on first-name terms with the feathery bastard pretty quickly. He shifts on his chair and hopes that Charlie can't see him now, but he never can be too sure. "Oh, dammit, just get to work, Charlie." 

 

Charlie has a whole file on Castiel by the time Dean starts getting ready to go Hunting. Apparently, his name is Castiel Novak, Charlie says. There's not much about him to find, though; he's thirty-three years old and has a sister named Anna Milton, struggling clothes designer, and is somehow related to a guy commonly known as Balthazar, famous mostly for being obscenely rich. 

"He doesn't even have a Facebook page," Charlie says, almost disgusted.

"Well, neither do I," is Dean's reply. He's packing his suit, scrunched up carelessly, into his duffel.

Charlie snorts. "Aren't you mutually compatible," she says and Dean groans. 

"Quit it," he snaps and straightens his back with a loud crack. "Do we have any particular plans for tonight?" The files and footage about the Fires have been a bust, but that's no surprise. Sometimes, though, Charlie surprises him by having a Hunt or two up her sleeve, so that Dean doesn't have to spend the night wandering aimlessly around the City.

"No," Charlie says. "Dean, maybe you should take a break, though. One night. You're already pretty beat up." 

"Not a chance," Dean replies. It's enough he took a night off - well, almost - yesterday, and it was a waste of time. 

"Well, okay," Charlie snaps, frustrated. "But when you get yourself killed, don't blame me." 

Dean swings his duffel bag onto his shoulder. "I'm pretty sure that if I get killed I won't get to blame anyone," he mutters under his breath. 

"But hey," Charlie says cheerily, "maybe _Castiel_ will show up to save your butt this time, too. That would be lovely." She has this way of saying Angel's name with a mockingly sweet tone; it's the same way Dean's seen little girls with pigtails fawn over tiny dogs.

"You're psychotic," he tells her, but truth be told, he thought the exact same thing; he'd like to think it's because he needs to have a word with the guy, but in reality, the thought of seeing him again so soon leaves Dean feeling a little giddy. He doesn't really remember what it's like to look forward to meeting a bunch of friends for a beer, but he imagine it'd be something like that. 

Except he and Feathers don't meet up to have a bowl of BBQ and a pint of Coors Light, but to beat the shit out of baddies. 

Except that he and Feathers don't meet up at all in the first place, Dean has to remind himself.

"Oh, you think _I'm_ psychotic?" Charlie says, the amusement evident in her voice. "You should see what they write about you two on the internet."

Dean frowns. 

 

Dean doesn't get to see Angel for more than a week, though; not until the next Fire happens. 

Charlie alerts Dean while he's at work; Bobby waves him off, sounding as gruff and indifferent as he always does, but Dean could swear there's something worried in his face. Benny just grins at Dean and tells him to get better soon when Dean pretends the burritos he ate yesterday probably weren't exactly as fresh as the diner's menu claimed. 

He takes his car this time; the faster he gets there, the better, although he doesn't use the Impala much when he Hunts; it's not the most inconspicuous car ever. Charlie finds him an abandoned building to use as a temporary base, and Dean parks close and changes from his working clothes to his _other_ working clothes in record time. 

"Dammit, Charlie, that's not normal," he barks as he runs towards the burning building. The fire is already in it's full force, but luckily, the apartment building is pretty small this time; only a handful of floors, but as Dean watches the flames roar he knows already he won't even be able to get very far.

Dean can't see much else over the commotion, the crowd of people standing by; he runs and pushes through them anyway, only to run into Jody Mills on the way. 

"Oh," she says, matter of factly. "There you are. Your winged buddy is already inside, so you should get on it," she says and points, and Dean nods; then frowns, because, _What?_

If Officer Mills sees Dean's confusion, she doesn't particularly care; she's eyeing him warily, waiting for him to go while Dean's mind boggles uselessly over why everyone seems to think he and Angel are some sort of a superheroic double act now. 

Mills is glaring at him now, exasperated. "Quit slacking off, boy, and go get 'em before anyone sees you around. Not all cops are as supportive of you vigilantes as I am," she says, as if Dean didn't know that already. It does the trick, though; Dean nods, hoping it conceives his gratitude at least partly, and pushes past her, closer to the burning building. The heat is almost unreal now, hot against Dean's bare skin, making his sweat where it's hidden under the suit. 

Dean doesn't even get halfway to the entrance into the building before Angel is standing in front of him; the parts of his face that are not covered by the mask are covered in soot and dust, almost as black as the rest of him. 

"You took your time," Angel says; then, as if in afterthought, "Hello, Hunter." 

"Well, I'm sorry, Feathers," Dean says with a wry smile, not really finding any humor in the situation. The heat sends tremors through Dean's whole body, the crippling weight of anxiety. Dean hates fire, and he hates this case; it stresses him out enough that he can't even properly appreciate standing face to face with Castiel again. "Some of us mere mortals must walk on feet to go places." 

"That is unfortunate," Angel says, voice serene as if he doesn't realize Dean was joking, in his own cynical way. "Are you ready? There aren't many people left." He sounds almost apologetic, as if he's the one who failed Dean and not the other way around. 

"Yeah. Let's stop wasting time already," he says and Angel is gone in an instant only to be back a few seconds later with a body in his arms; Dean doesn't really examine the person when he's put in front of him, but it's a young men, skinny and lanky. Dean touches his pulse and closes his eyes, concentrating. 

Dean has never studied medicine, never even received basic medical training; everything he knows about the human body he knows from self-studies. But when it comes to his powers, once he taps into them and lets them run through him, he instinctively seems to just _know_ everything about the human body. It's like he's a shell, a body for the powers to borrow whenever it's needed. 

Dean let's them course through him now, like an electric current; the healing drains him some, always does, but it's nothing drastic - the less serious the damage to the human body is, the easier it is for Dean to mend it; and this guy is lucky. 

Dean pats the boy's cheek with two fingers and a wry grin, the boy blinking up blearily, confusedly at him. Then Angel is back, another person thrown over his shoulder. He lays the body down onto the ground a few feet away from Dean and then steps back. They lock eyes only briefly, Angel making sure that Dean knows he's there, and then he's gone again. 

Dean lets the paramedics take over the boy; they seem reluctant to get anywhere near Hunter. Mostly, they just seem to pretend he's not there at all, and that they're not actually breaking any laws by not hitting him over the head with the first dull object they can find to get him arrested. 

They let him do his job and so Dean's not too bitter about it. He pushes to his feet, jogging over to the next person Angel brought down. 

The next time Angel appears, it's right in front of Dean; he has two women with him, now; one hanging off his arms where he holds her, limp and unmoving, the other gripping his other elbow, eye wide and scared, hair wild and cheeks dirty with soot. 

Angel shakes her off and lays the unconscious woman onto the ground. Dean kneels down at the same time the other woman - a girl, really, now that he looks at her - falls to her knees, too. "Oh, god, please, help her," she says, voice rough and cracking. "There was this woman and she - she - " and then Angel is pulling her away; Dean looks up at them, frowning, before turning back to the unconscious body in front of him. 

This woman can't be much older (if not younger) than the other one; her face is eerily calm and pale, though. Dean knows it's too late for her before he even touches her. He tries, anyway. "Dammit," he says after he lets his palm fall away from her forehead; if there's a spark of life left in her, it's tiny and hard to find, even for Dean. "It's too late." 

"Great," Charlie says, and her voice is tight with worry, and concern. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do."

Dean ignores her for the moment; it's not anything he hasn't heard her say a thousand times before, anyway. He looks up to see the other woman, hanging limply off a paramedic's arms, staring at Dean with her mouth open in a wordless scream. There's unconcealed pain in her face; the kind Dean is all too familiar with - loss, fear. Guilt. 

He lets out a bitter chuckle. "Worth a shot, isn't it?" he says; he look around, searching for Angel, and finds him standing a few feet away, watching Dean like a hawk, visibly frowning even despite the mask hiding half his face, the dirt hiding the rest. "Are there any more people inside?" Dean asks him, nodding towards the building. 

Castiel shakes his head; his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his cheeks dirty with soot. "Not that I know off," he says, and his voice sounds rough, hoarse - even more than usual, that is. 

"Great," Dean says. "It's worth a shot," he repeats to himself, quietly and he bends himself over the nearly lifeless body in front of him. 

"Dean, don't," Charlie says warningly. 

Dean makes a noncommittal sound and reaches for the woman's forehead with one hand. Before he closes his eyes he can see Angel move closer to him; he screws his eyes shut, then, and chases the last, tiny flash of life he can feel.

Dean _connects_ to the people he heals; he feels their pain, he feels their desire to live. Using his powers - feeling people reach out to him and their will to live - is as rewarding as it is taxing; sometimes, though, sometimes it's too much. Sometimes Dean tries too hard, he knows that - sometimes he tries where there's no hope, or no will. The problem is that he taps into those feelings, too. The only comparison he can think of for touching death is that it's like jumping into ice-cold water. 

No matter what Dean tells himself, he's never prepared for it. It slams into him like a freight train and steals the air from his lungs.

The last thing he hears is Charlie calling his name. The last thing he feels is the power, rebounding, hitting back into him like a hammer, slamming into Dean's skull from the inside. 

Everything goes dark. 

 

Dean wakes up in silence, on hard concrete; there are stones digging into his back, but that's nothing compared to the pounding headache at the back of his head. He tries to sit up and gives up; his stomach squeezes and his temples feel like they're going to burst. He groans. 

There's some rustling to his right. He hears, "He's regaining consciousness," and chuckles; not only does he know that voice, but he knows that speech pattern, too. 

"Who the hell says 'regaining consciousness?'" he mumbles, voice coming out rough. 

"Dean," he hears again and opens one eye, squinting against the bright afternoon sunlight; it's confusing, the feeling of the suit on his skin together with sun blocking his view. He turns to the side and comes face to face with Angel, with Castiel, kneeling beside him; his mask is off, and his brows are drawn in a frown, his eyes worried. The realization hits Dean, then, of what happened - he shoots up this time, ignoring any pain he feels. 

"What - " he croaks and he sounds rough, sickly, tired. 

"You collapsed," Castiel reminds him and points at the headset Dean uses with Charlie now lying between them, then at his own ear. "Your handler tells me it happens when you exert too much of your strength." 

Dean groans again and pushes himself into a fully-sitting position; Castiel's hand flies to his upper back, supporting him. "The fire - what - " 

"It's being taken care of," Castiel says softly. "There was nothing we could do, anyway. I took you elsewhere." 

Dean looks around the abandoned alley. "What the hell does 'elsewhere' mean?" he asks; he wonders if Castiel's powers have any limits, and realizes he doesn't know. There is a possibility, though, and Dean has a sudden vision of lying on the ground in Moscow or Hong Kong.

"In the suburban parts of the City," he says and Dean closes his eyes, sagging against Castiel's hand supporting him. 

His head is killing him and he thinks he's going to throw up, soon, but the look on Castiel's face is worth the breathless laugh that's forced out of him. "Quit looking so worried, I'm not gonna drop dead on you," he says. Castiel stills next to him, but only for a second. His shoulders slump, then, and the hand on Dean's back moves to his shoulder. 

"How are you feeling?" he asks. 

Dean's smile wavers, then falls away. "As I said, I'll live," he says. 

"According to your handler, you need to rest. I have to agree with her judgement." 

Dean does brush his hand off, then. "I'm fine." 

"Your nose is bleeding," Castiel deadpans immediately. 

Dean glances at him, then quickly wipes the back of his hand over his face; it comes away wet, and when Dean looks at it, there's a bright red streak across it. "Dammit." Dean breathes out, wipes his hand on his thigh; when he wipes the back of his hand under his nose again, there's no fresh blood. He looks up triumphantly at Castiel. "See? I'm fine now."

Castiel makes a disapproving sound. "Dean, you need rest. If not medical attention." 

"Well, then get me back to the City," Dean snaps. He tries to push himself to a stand, but ends up kneeling, leaning against the cold, hard ground and gasping for breath, fighting down the urge to throw up. His eyes are squeezed shut against the pounding headache in his skull.

"I will take you home," Castiel says. 

"Buy me dinner first," Dean intones, but Castiel neither laughs or reacts in any other way. Dean glares at him. "No!" he says, teeth gritted. "I'm not telling you where I fucking live, Castiel, are you crazy? Did they teach you nothing in the superhero school?" 

"I did not attend such a school," Castiel says in a way of reply, sounding exasperated; despite himself, Dean barks out another laugh. Cas ignores him, face drawn into an expertly blank expression; Dean wonders if the has no sense of humor or just no facial expressions in general. 

"Ah, dude, you gotta be kidding me," he says, closing his eyes and hanging his head, still laughing breathlessly. From the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel freeze again, the inaction subtle - in a way that Dean recognizes from doing himself many times over the years. "Don't listen to anything she tells you about me," he says, grinning weakly. "It's all lies. Unless it's good." 

Cas looks at him, eyes searching his face; he's quiet for a while and then he slides closer to Dean and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

Dean gasps, tries to jerk away and chokes out, "Don't!" because he will throw up this time; he's barely fighting it as it is. He's not going to be able to make it through another fucking flight with Angel Airways right now, of that he's sure. 

Castiel says, "My apologies," before he whisks Dean away. 

 

Dean looks around only when he feels certain enough that he's _not_ going to actually throw up; it takes minutes for him to breathe through it, and he fights the dizziness with all he has left in him at the moment. In addition to his upset stomach there's a deep ache setting in his bones already, like there always is when he tries to do more than his abilities allow. 

He looks around his apartment when he pries his eyes open. He croaks out, "She gave you my address." He mutters under his breath, mostly to himself, "I'm gonna kill her." 

"I'm to tell you that you're an ungrateful, stubborn little shit," Castiel says, and the words sound so strange out of his mouth that Dean laughs in surprise. Again.

"Credit where it's due, that does sound kinda like me." 

They fall into a silence while Dean catches his breath. Cas stands up and his hand leaves Dean shoulder; Dean misses it sorely the moment the contact breaks - there was something grounding in it, a quiet support Dean didn't even know he yearned for before Castiel wordlessly offered - and looks up to see Castiel standing above him, looking around his half-assed parody of an apartment. 

Cas looks like he wants to say something but can't find the words; he glances around himself and then at Dean, who doesn't even pretend he's capable of standing up. "Yeah, it's a shitty place to live, I know," he says and shrugs; it's not like he spends a lot of time here, anyway. He mostly just sleeps here - the space is dominated by the large mattress on the floor by the window. It's unmade and just lying there, looking sad and insufficient, but it was expensive and it's his and it's comfortable and welcoming. - Dean groans and pushes himself to his knees, then to his feet. 

Cas looks weirdly out of place, hesitant; he clenches and unclenches his fists by his sides like he wants to reach out for Dean to steady him. "Can you not heal yourself?" he asks. 

Dean shakes his head and shuffles to his mattress; he tries to look dignified while lowering himself down, but he has no experience in doing that; mostly he just flops onto it and groans in misery. "Nah," he says in reply once he's sitting down. "Sucks, doesn't it?" 

Truth be told, Dean doesn't even really care anymore. He once did, when he was a kid and found out for the first time that he could fix Sam's scraped knees and his Dad's hangovers, but not his own pain; as time went by he made peace with it, though. 

"Does it happen often?" Castiel says, and Dean looks up at him; he tries not to stare, really - but it's kind of hard when Cas's suit looks designed to attract attention to all the wrong places.

'Aren't you uncomfortable?' Dean almost asks, staring at the bulge in Castiel's crotch, but swallows the question down - then he realizes what he's been doing and very pointedly does not blush. "More often than I'd like," he says instead. 

Suddenly, he's just too tired; tired of sitting up when he could be lying, of failing to save people,; tired of dealing with Cas and his bulge in Dean's line of vision. He just wants to sleep. Castiel, however, is still standing in the middle of the apartment, staring at Dean like he can't decide what to do with him. 

"Either sit the fuck down," Dean tells him, "or go the fuck away. Either way, I'm going to sleep," he says and flops down onto the mattress, throwing his elbow over his eyes; he's too tired to even give a crap that the other Super is still invading his space and could possibly kill him in sleep - though he knows he won't. Somehow, Dean's already came to terms that if the guy wanted to gank him, he wouldn't have bothered to save his ass or bring him home, but would have just _done_ it.

There's no sound from his apartment, and the next time Dean looks up it's empty; he lets out a long, exhausted breath and flops back down. Nevermind that he's still wearing the goddamn, filthy suit and will have to change his sheets tomorrow, or that he didn't even take his boots off; Dean doesn't even care that he's lying only partly on the mattress, his feet hanging off. 

He passes out. 

 

"Dean, no." Charlie somehow hacked herself into Dean's cell; it won't end the call no matter what Dean tries, and it won't turn off either. "No, it won't turn off. And if you put it in another room," Charlie says just as Dean starts contemplating it, "I'll just hack into your computer. Then your tiny excuse for a television." 

"Dammit," Dean mutters and crouches next to his bed, pulling up the corner to look underneath. "Where the hell is the thing?" 

"What thing?" 

"The goddamn headset!" Dean snaps. "That thing we use to communicate when I'm out there. _Dammit,_ Charlie." 

Charlie laughs. "Angel has it," she says. 

Dean sits up so fast he almost bangs the back of his bed on the bed frame. "What do you mean, Angel has it?" 

"Well, he was wearing when we had to deal with your crazy yesterday. Guess he forgot to take it off when you kicked him out," Charlie says. 

"I did not kick him out," Dean retorts. 

Charlie sighs. "Dean," she says, "you kicked him out." 

And, yeah, Dean supposes he has. Dean's been saving people for long enough to know that most of them don't thank him, whether it is from shock or fear or, simply, arrogance; he just never thought he would be one of them. Well, he has never been the one saved before Castiel came along, so he had no way of finding out. He grits his teeth. "Either get him here to give that damn thing back," he growls, "or I'm going Hunting alone." 

There's a silence on the line for a while. "Maybe I should just let you," Charlie mutters after a beat. "We would see how well you'd do out there without me." Which, Dean supposes, wouldn't be all that well. and. The call disconnects. 

Dean stands there, in the middle of his apartment, and doesn't know if Charlie's left to pester Angel instead, or if she just _left_ , and Dean is expected to go Hunting by himself for the night. There isn't a whole lot of stuff inside Dean's apartment, but he's never felt awkward in it; he does now, waiting aimlessly. 

He decides to wait for fifteen minutes to see if he hears from Charlie, taking his shoes off again and wandering around, picking up dirty laundry for a while and then rummaging through his empty fridge. 

By the time Castiel shows up, in full Angel costume and wearing Dean's headset, Dean's not expecting him at all and almost keels over from the shock. 

"How about you stop doing that? You can't just sneak into my place whenever you feel like it, man," Dean snaps once he doesn't feel like his heart will hammer its way out of his chest, and, okay, only a few seconds ago he was ready to thank the dude when he saw him again. There's something so infuriating about Cas and his expressionless face and posture, though, that Dean's blood starts pumping everytime he gets near him - he wants to see him lose composure, snap back, do _something_ rather than stare at Dean as if they were having a polite conversation while having tea and cookies instead of snarking at each other. "Did you just shamelessly steal my equipment?" 

"It's not theft if I intend to give it back," Castiel replies and, while his face doesn't change that much - Dean wonders if he's actually a robot; he has to ask Charlie to test it later - Dean could swear his lips tug into a tiny smirk. 

"Why don't you give it back right now?" Dean says, crossing his arms defensively. "Hell, why didn't you give it back yesterday?" 

"I forgot." 

"You forgot?" 

Cas looks mildly annoyed. "Yes, I forgot. I accidentally left while still wearing them."

"Why didn't you just go back when you realized? Would have taken you about ten seconds," Dean says, feeling mildly triumphant with the argument. 

"You just told me I'm not allowed to come into your apartment without an invitation," Cas points out. 

"Well, obviously you don't give a crap about my privacy, anyway!" Dean snaps.

Cas opens his mouth to answer Dean, and Dean thinks he's finally gotten a rise out of the guy, when Charlie cuts in. "As amusing as it is to listen to you two bicker like an old married couple," she says, and from what Dean can see in his peripheral vision, the look of annoyance he aims at the speaker Charlie's voice is coming from directly mirrors Castiel's own. "There is a city that needs protecting."

"That's right," Dean says, turning back to Cas. "Gimme." He gestures at the headset. 

"Actually - " Charlie starts, but Castiel cuts in. 

"Charlie and I have come to the conclusion that, since you need rest and should 'take a breather,' as she put it, I will take over your duties for a few nights." 

The silence from the speaker sounds nervous, somehow, but Cas looks unperturbed by Dean's impending freak out. "You're actually serious," he says after a moment and Cas nods. "Well," Dean lets out a bitter, unamused huff of breath. "Thank a lot, Charlie." It's good to know that on top of not being wanted - not by his brother, not by Lisa - that he's not needed to protect the goddamn City, either; Dean feels like the last thing in his life he could take pride in has been snatched from him. 

"Dean," she says, tiredly. "You _do_ need a break." 

"I'm fucking fine! I can do my goddamn job." 

"Dean," Castiel says, cutting in, and just hearing his name come out of his mouth, in that voice - it sends an involuntary, unwelcome shiver down Dean's spine. "It is not your _job_ , as you say. The fate of this city doesn't lie on your shoulders alone. You're not - " 

"A superhero?" Dean laughs, bitterly. 

"You're _human_ ," Cas amends. "You can't save everyone in the City. You shouldn't have to run yourself into the ground while doing it, certainly." 

Dean squares his shoulders and looks him straight in the eye to find some hidden meaning - mockery - behind his words, but Cas looks sincere. Dean's eyes suddenly feel too dry and he looks away, clearing his throat. 

"Yeah," he says. "I'm well aware." 

Castiel pauses for a second, hesitant, as if he expects Dean to do or say something more; when Dean doesn't, Cas says, "I will see you tomorrow," and he makes it sound like a promise. 

Dean believes him. 

 

He spends that night with his old TV he bought on a whim, at a junkie's yard sale a few years back; there are old reruns of Law & Order on, but he's not paying a whole lot of attention to the show. He's mostly sitting in front of his laptop on the City Times' webpage - who knew you could follow the happenings in the City on the internet, live? 

He wonders if this is how Charlie spends her days and nights; sitting in front of a computer screen and worrying.

Except Charlie can _do_ something from behind her computer. Even though Dean knows exactly what Charlie and Angel are doing, while with a bit of a delay, he can't even talk to them. 

He makes a mental note to ask Charlie to get another pair of headphones, in case Cas decides to stick around, but she beats him to it when she connects to his computer later that night. 

"We're home!" she says, as a way of greeting. "Or, you know, Castiel is. I've been home the whole time. Just thought you might want to know. He's home, he's fine, nothing exploded tonight." 

Dean says, "That's great," and then they say, at the same time, "I've been thinking - "

"Go on first," Dean tells Charlie, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"I think we should get Castiel his own headset," Charlie says. "In case stuff like this happens again, or even - " 

"I've been thinking the same thing," Dean admits, and Charlie stops dead in her tracks. 

After a beat of silence, she says, "You have?" sounding suspicious, like Dean might be fucking with her just to have some fun. 

"Yeah," Dean says. "I mean, I spent the whole night staring at the computer screen watching what you two might have been up to while not being able to say anything about it. It sucked." 

"Ha! So you realize now how frustrating it is when I tell you to do something, and you do the exact opposite?" 

Dean laughs, loud and obnoxious. "That's different."

"No," Charlie tells him, dragging the word out. "It's really not, Dean." 

"Whatever you say." Dean shrugs. "Oh, and one more thing. Yesterday, in the Fire - that lady, the one that - the one I couldn't - " 

Charlie hums softly. "I know who you mean," she says. 

"Yeah," Dean breathes out, relieved he doesn't have to say it out loud. _The one who died. The one I didn't save._ "Her friend Angel pulled out with her, the other woman. I need to know her name and where I can find her." 

"Why?" Charlie asks, but Dean can already hear her fingers flying over the keyboard. 

"She said this thing, it was so strange - 'There was a woman,'" he quotes. "It's kind of an odd thing to say when your friend, or girlfriend, sister - " there's a chill going through Dean's body at the thought, " - is possibly dying, isn't it?" 

"You want to go question her," Charlie says. 

"Well, yeah! We haven't have a solid lead on this case yet, heck yeah I wanna go talk to her. It's leg work, Charlie. I doubt I'll overstrain myself just talking to a little girl." 

Charlie scoffs. "It's hardly ever this easy with you," she says. 

Dean can't help but grin. "Was it easier with Angel?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows although he's 99% positive Charlie can't actually see him. 

She starts laughing; it's high pitched and little hysterical. "God, no," she says. "I don't think I've ever worked with anymore more stubborn. He's insane." 

"Huh," Dean says, honestly surprised. 

"Yeah. Sweet Lord of the Rings. But I'll suppose you'll see for yourself soon enough." She hesitates for a split second, then says, "You do think he's sticking around, don't you?" 

"Whoa there, Charlie, I'm shocked. I thought you didn't even like boys." 

"It's not about me," Charlie says, unamusedly. "I'll look into the Fire lady and let you know what I found out after we both slept."


	4. Pt. III

The next day, it's Angel who comes as a bearer of good news. "How are you feeling?" is the first thing he says, appearing right behind Dean while he's trying to get the dried blood out of his gloves. 

Dean contemplates turning around and punching him, but by now he's very well aware that he probably couldn't, even if he tried; Angel has made a name for himself by avoiding punches, kicks, gunshots, and pretty much anything else thrown his way. Dean just glares at him instead. "I was better before you tried to give me a heart attack, Feathers," he grits out. 

Cas ignores it; Dean wonders if he does it to everyone, and if he gets off on it, too. "Your handler sent me," he says simply. "There should be a folder on your computer with the files you asked for. She informed me we would be doing leg work tonight," he says and he sounds confused by it, like _'leg work'_ is a term so foreign to him he can't even begin to understand it. 

Dean is on his way to the desk with his laptop on it, but he turns to grin at Cas. "What, you've never done leg work? You should walk more, or you're gonna get flabby," he says, but then his grin falls. "Wait, what do you mean, _we_?" 

"As in, you and I," Castiel clarifies. "I'm to accompany you on this case." 

"Great," Dean grits out. "So you're my babysitter." 

"I considered us partners," Cas says, instantly. 

Dean would really like to be pissed, he would, but instead he watches Cas while he waits for the files Charlie stole to load on his desktop, and thinks, _What planet are you from?_ Instead, he asks, "Where is Charlie, anyway?" 

"She says she is otherwise engaged," Castiel explains, coming to stand closer behind Dean's shoulder to have a better view at the now opened files. 

"Her name was Lily Baker," Dean says and points at the screen. 

"Is that the woman who died in the fire?" Cas asks; Lily Baker, of course, wasn't the only one - Dean's read the papers, he knows exactly what the death toll was this time, even with Angel's help. He nods, though, because he understands what Castiel means. 

"She was twenty-four years old, living with a roommate." Dean turns the screen more towards Cas to show him the picture. It looks like a Yearbook picture and nothing like the girl Angel dragged out of the flames. "It's the other one you saved, right?" he asks, and Cas nods. "Her name is Ava Wilson. The file says that she's been brought to a hospital, questioned by the police, and then released." He sticks his finger on the screen, poking at the field titled as Ava Wilson's current address. There's something that looks suspiciously like Charlie's handwriting above it; _8TH FLOOR, APARTMENT 245._ "Says right here she moved back in with her parents. Guess where we're going tonight?" He turns to Cas, grinning. 

"The police report from her questioning is right there," Cas points out. 

Dean waves his hand. "I'll read that later. Let's talk to her ourselves." 

 

Ava Wilson's parents live in an apartment building not too far from the one that burned down a few days ago, their daughter almost with it. Dean and Cas are currently standing underneath it, hidden in shadows. 

"We can't come knocking on their front door, can we?" Cas says, but his voice is uncertain, like he wouldn't put it past Dean. 

Dean shakes his head. "Nah, we're gonna climb the proverbial stairway to heaven." He points up, at the fire escape ladder leading to the upper floors. 

Cas looks up, following Dean's finger, eyeing the ladder critically, before turning back to Dean with a scowl. 

Dean scoffs. "Come one, dude, you know it's funny. Even you must get that joke - an _Angel_. Climbing a _stairway to Heaven_." He's watching Cas, still grinning, barely resisting the urge nudge him in the ribs with his elbow. "Really? That's, like, joking for dummies."

Castiel's glare doesn't let up any. "I still maintain that flying - " he starts but Dean cuts him off. 

"Oh, no, no, no. No flying for me anymore. You're not zapping me anywhere as long as I have a say in it." 

Castiel, on top of looking very hostile towards the staircase, looks baffled. "Why?" he asks. "It's physically much less taxing than climbing eight floors on a ladder." 

"Maybe for you," Dean growls. "Me, it just leaves constipated. Besides, we can't just appear in the middle of the poor girl's room, dude. That's rude." 

"Yes," Castiel says, flatly. "And climbing in through her window is much better." 

Dean grimaces and his shoulders slump. "Okay," he says. "You got a point. But if I barf all over that girl's carpet, you're covering the cleaning bill." 

 

It turns out that Ava doesn't even have a carpet. Castiel hits her room perfectly on the first try - exactly in the middle of it, thanks to Charlie leaving a scan of the building's blueprints on Dean's computer. 

The room is dark and quiet, and for a moment Dean thinks it's empty. He turns to Cas, eyes narrowed. "We should have made sure she was gonna be home, first," he says in a hushed voice. 

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but in the corner of the room, a dark lump rises on the bed - actually, it snaps into a sitting position with a choked off yelp, the girl wide-eyed and her hair a mess. "It's you," she says and reaches over to turn on her bedside lamp. 

Then she starts crying. 

Dean's been doing this for way, way too long; there's never a good time, or a good place, or a good way to interview friends and families for his cases. Usually, it involves tears and curses, and no matter how much Dean tries to prepare himself for it, it never gets any easier. 

"Ava Wilson?" he asks, because he find out, from experience, that it's a better conversation opener than apologizing. He glances at Cas; he's watching the girl, wide-eyed, seemingly out of his depth; his body language suggests he's ready to flee and Dean just hopes he doesn't. 

The girl nods, twice, "Yeah," she croaks. She seems shaky as she climbs out of her bed to stand in front of them. 

"We need to ask you a few question," Dean tells her softly. "Is that okay?" 

Ava wipes her eyes and sniffs, but she looks determined rather than scared or heartbroken; she looks much, much older than Dean remembers her. "About the woman?" she asks, and Dean's eyes flicker to Cas's momentarily. Neither of them move any more, and Dean is stupidly happy Cas doesn't look like he's about to disappear on him any second. 

"Yeah," he says. "Just tell us what you saw, and then we'll be out of your hair." 

Ava nods and flops back onto her bed; entwining her fingers in her lap, she starts talking. "She was just - there. I was in my room reading and then I heard this - this noise, coming from Lily's room, you know? Like, banging. I went over there to see if she's okay and when I opened the door, she was there and Lily was - she was - " 

Ava's voice breaks, and Dean shifts on his feet, uncomfortable; excited. They haven't had a solid, worthwhile lead on this Hunt yet, and this looks so promising; part of Dean wants to grab Ava and shake her to get her to concentrate, but mostly, he just feels guilty. 

"Can you describe her to us?" Castiel cuts in. 

"She was - normal. Not much older than us, I think? Normal height. Brown hair, kind of - longish?" Ava shrugs, miserable. "There wasn't anything really special about her, and it's not like I got to take a good hard look, anyway."

"How come?" Dean asks. 

"Uh." Ava laughs bitterly, glaring at Dean. "Because my friend was crumpled on the floor in front of her. And the moment I opened the door I started feeling this, like, exhaustion," she says. "The next thing I know is that I'm lying on the floor next to Lily, the lady is gone, and the whole building is on fire." 

Dean nods. "Is there any reason why she might have targeted Lily?" 

Ava looks up at them. She seems to hesitate a moment before she says, "Lily was a Super," and Dean's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. "But no one knew, I don't understand how she could have - " 

Dean turns to Castiel, just to gauge his reaction; a Super going around burning down shit is bad news - a Super going around and taking out other Supers is bad fucking news. Castiel is watching him, too, brows drawn together in thought and concern. 

"Ava," Dean addresses her; she's visibly getting upset again, her face scrunched up. Dean kneels in front of her so that their on the same eye level. "Ava, I need to know - and think about this really hard - if you've ever seen the woman before. At school?" 

Ava shakes her head. 

"Okay. Anywhere else they might have met? Has Lily told anyone that she's a Super?" When Ava shakes her head again, Dean takes a breath and closes his eyes. "Have you told anyone?" 

Ava, of course, gets upset. "No," she hisses. "I wouldn't - I didn't - " 

"No one would blame you, okay? It's a horrible, hard secret to live with, we both know that. Right?" He turns to Castiel, and Castiel nods, face solemn. "But we need to know, because we need to find this person and put a stop to this, alright?" 

Ava is nodding, but then she says, "But I didn't tell anyone. I doubt Lily did, either - I mean, no one knew, not even her parents - " 

"How did you know?" Castiel jumps in. 

Ava turns to him. "We lived together. I needed to know to avoid getting myself killed." 

Cas frowns. "What do you mean?" 

Ava swallows, takes a deep breath; she seems calmer already now that her influence in her friend's death is off the table. "Lily, she, uh, she had this thing where she killed people when she touched them," she says quietly. That stops Dean dead in his tracks. When Ava sees his face, stricken, she starts babbling, "But she never - she wouldn't have - not on purpose. That's why she told me, because she didn't want to - " 

"It's okay," Dean says, trying to calm her down. "We didn't think that. Is there anything else that seems important?" 

Ava thinks for a second, shakes her head, shrugs. "No. Nothing I can remember," she says and Dean decides to take her word for it. 

He stands up, then, backing away again, closer to where Castiel stands. "Okay," he says. "We believe you. Thanks for telling us, you've done a hell-of-a good job," he says, flashing her a quick grin. "We'll be out of your hair now." He lets Cas climb back out of the window first, but he turns back to Ava when she speaks again. 

"What if I remember something? How do I, get a hold of you?" She's standing again, now, facing the window. 

"I ain't the police," Dean tells her. "I'm not Batman, either, so you better think really, really hard if there's anything else. But if you do actually remember something, just make a statement with the cops. I'll keep an eye out for it." 

Ava nods, and Dean's halfway through the window when she says, "Hunter." He turns to find her watching him, her face in a hard, hateful mask. "Find her," she says, voice sharp, "and kill her." There's not even a hint of remorse in her voice, or her expression; Ava radiates spite out of her every pore, and it leaves Dean speechless, a sour taste at the back of his throat. 

He says nothing, doesn't even nod; he climbs out of her window and slides down the ladder to catch up with Cas, who's already waiting for him down, partly hidden in the shadow of the building. 

When Dean joins him, relieved to have solid ground underneath his feet again, he sighs. "Let's get outta here before someone notices us," he grits through his teeth and screws his eyes shut at Castiel's surprised, smug expression. "Don't make me say it again," he says. 

 

Flying seems to be better when Dean's expecting it; the closed eyes also help. While it still leaves him shaky and his stomach feeling like he's on the open sea, he doesn't have the stupid urge to throw up all over his feet now. 

"I hate doing this," he says, and Castiel hums in agreement next to him. 

"It will get better with time and experience," he promises, and Dean turns to smirk at him. 

"I meant interviewing people," he says. "Though flying is on the list of shit I hate, too." He looks around himself, pleased to see that, while they're on a rooftop, it's only a tiny building and they're not uncomfortably high. There are two plastic chairs and a table few feet away, and Dean walks over and lowers himself to one of the chairs, pulling his hood back. "I want coffee," he admits, yawning. 

Cas sits down gingerly on the other chair, facing Dean; Dean grins at his reluctance, like he's afraid of getting his ass a little dirty. "That could be arranged," he says. 

Dean waves his hand. "Maybe later. We need to talk." 

"Of course," Castiel nods. Then, he says, "You were very good at it," out of nowhere. "Talking to Ava," he clarifies when Dean frowns at him. 

"I'm good at acting the part," Dean tells him. "I've been doing it for a while."

"You were very kind," Castiel points out. "Kindness is very hard to fake." 

"Not when you're Dean Winchester, regular Oscar material," Dean grins at him; he grins harder at Cas's serious expression. "Like I said, years and years of experience, dude. Besides, Ava was pretty willing to talk. You wouldn't believe the kind of wheedling I have to perform sometimes to stop people from hitting me with their brooms." He leans back in his chair, letting the cool night breeze blow around his head; one of the very few things he dislikes about his suit is how hot is it - especially in summer. He long ago gave up on trying to make it lighter, less heavy - he still prefers being a little hot over having to pick gravel out of his body the next time he falls. 

Castiel doesn't reply for a while, watching Dean like he's studying him; eyes narrowed into a squint, lips in a tight line. "I thought it was only me you disliked," he says after a beat of silence, and Dean almost falls off the chair right then and there. 

"What?" he says, eyes wide; he leans forward to see Castiel better. "What? Cas, dude, I don't dislike you! We're competition, but I don't - " Dean shakes his head; Castiel is watching his with a somber expression, thought it softens when Dean says his name; Dean wonders for a moment if he's been worrying about Dean hating him all this time. 

"I always considered us allies," he says softly, "rather than competition." 

Dean can't help but scoff. "You almost squashed me the first time we met," he reminds him. "Hell, I thought you despised me for _years_."

Castiel looks just as surprised as Dean feels. "Dean," he says, tone admonishing, "you were wearing a mask made out of a sock," he says and Dean glares at him with all his might. "I thought you were trying to get yourself killed." Dean was; he's not going to tell Cas that, though. "I grew to respect you a great deal in the past several years," Castiel adds and Dean does blush this time. 

"Uh. Me, too. I mean, I respect you," he says. "You're an okay dude for a douche." He hopes it comes off as the joke it so obviously is; Dean risks a glance at Cas, and he seems more amused than anything else. Dean clears his throat, relieved. "Great, so we don't hate each other, hoorah." He leans back in his chair, turning his eyes heavenwards, and mutters under his breath, "God, I was wrong - I don't need coffee, I need a fucking drink." He turns to look at Cas again, who seems unperturbed by the display of emotion they just went through. "Can we talk the case now?" 

"Of course." 

Dean sighs. "Shit's really wonky," he says, and glances at Cas. "I touched the girl. Direct skin to skin contact. So did you, right?" Castiel nods. "Judging by what Ava said, we both should be dead right now." 

Castiel frowns. "Her Powers must have gone away when she died." 

Dean shakes his head slowly, gritting his teeth. "She wasn't dead when you brought her out." 

"What?" Castiel's eyes are wide, surprised. "I thought - " 

"She was barely alive, but she wasn't dead," Dean explains. "She was - too far gone for me to really do anything, but…" Dean shrugs, going for nonchalant. 

Castiel is watching like he can see through him; it's not with pity, though, not exactly - it's with concern, and sympathy. Dean can't decide which is the worse option, but either way, he's thankful that Cas doesn't say anything and doesn't give him one of those moving speeches he seems to be fond of. 

When Dean speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "Anyway," he says and coughs to take the raw edge off, at least a bit. "The whole thing is really weird. No one knows Lily is a Super, then all of a sudden, a nondescript chick no one's ever seen before shows up at her apartment, knocks her roommate out but doesn't kill either of them, then sets the whole thing on fire." 

"Why set the whole building aflame, though?" Castiel says. "Especially if killing the women wasn't even her priority?" 

Dean grins wryly. "Some people just want to watch the world burn," he quotes, but Cas just frowns. Dean's shoulders slump. "Dude, really? Joker?" he hints. If anything, Cas looks even more perplexed. "You haven't seen Batman?" Dean laughs, disbelieving. "Everyone and their grandma has seen Batman! _Really?_ "

"Oh. No, no, I haven't. I don't see the point in watching superheroes movies when I am one," Cas says with a small, indifferent shrug. 

Dean rolls his eyes, smirking. "Way to be a smug bastard. No one's _Batman_ , Feathers. I'm gonna sit you down and make you watch _all_ the Batman flicks. Even the one with Schwarzenegger." 

Cas shrugs. "That wouldn't be amiss," he says. "My sister has been trying to get me to watch them for a while. Although I would much rather watch them with you, considering." 

Dean perks up at the mention of Castiel's sister; it seems like Cas knows too much about him while Dean knows _nothing_ \- where Cas lives, what he does for a living, what he does for fun (although he suspects Cas doesn't really know how to have fun in the first place) - but doesn't want to pry. "Considering what?" he asks sweetly. 

Cas seems unimpressed. "Considering her crush on the actor portraying the lead character," he says flatly. 

Dean laughs; he throws his head back and shakes it, grinning at the starless City sky. He wonders when was the last time he sat down and laughed freely, without having to force it; it's certainly been a while. Dean doesn't really want to examine it in depth,; instead, he looks back down to find Cas watching Dean with a smile - something Dean hasn't seen, or hasn't registered before - and he can't help but grin back. 

"Okay, so here's a suggestion - since it's late, and since I'm actually still on bedrest courtesy of Dr Charlie, how about we go get some coffee, grab some grub, and then start teaching you some pop culture?" 

 

A week later, Dean doesn't understand how could he ever consider Cas a mystery. 

Cas showed up one afternoon with a six pack of beer, holding it up gingerly in front of him. "As an apology for accidentally stealing your headset," he said while handing it over to a grinning Dean. Incidentally, or so Charlie says, a shiny new headset appeared before Dean's front door the next morning, with Charlie's scribbled handwriting announcing: _FOR CASTIEL._

After, Cas takes to hogging the corner of Dean's bed while watching documentaries about wildlife. Dean doesn't think Cas has ever seen a movie in his life, not before Dean made the _Get Cas To Watch As Many Classics As I Can_ mission his new sole purpose in life; but he has a weird obsession with infomercials. 

Cas likes root beer more than he does beer, doesn't appreciate pie nearly as much as he should, prefers Superman over Batman (which Dean takes as a personal insult), and has no music taste to speak of. Most of the time, he doesn't understand Dean's stupid jokes, either; when Dean tried to make a dumb, mostly self-deprecating jibe about superheroes and sidekicks, Cas just frowned at him, like Dean was being especially unreasonable. "You are not my sidekick, Dean," he said, completely missing the point Dean was trying to make. 

Lack of comprehension of humor aside, Dean found out that Cas is smart as fuck; no matter what they watch, he always figures out the plot twists long before the lead characters - or Dean - do. And, apparently, as Dean witnesses on one especially frantic late afternoon, he solves really complicated mathematical equations for fun. 

Dean also finds out pretty quickly that Cas is better at evading that he is at hand-to-hand combat, and he's better at fighting than he is at comforting people, which is both expected and completely unsurprising at the same time. It proves, though, that Cas's awkwardness extends to other people besides Dean, which makes Dean stupidly happy, and that he's just as brisk with everyone else as he is with Dean. 

Dean slowly realizes over the past week that what he knew, or thought he knew, about Cas has been false all along. But, while there are a lot of things Dean still doesn't know about Cas, he's no longer the distant, mythical creature Dean always took him for. 

 

Somehow, over the past week, Dean must have fallen out of favor with Bobby; he's been put on paperwork duty, which is what Bobby does when either he's pissed with Dean or Dean shows up extremely banged up. Given that Dean's been doing better ever since Cas came into the picture than he has been for years - apparently, having a dude who can sweep in at any second to save your ass is really helpful; who would have thought? - Dean has no idea what the hell crawled up Bobby's ass. 

Paperwork duty is a fucking drag. 

Just when Dean thinks he's about to lose his freaking mind with boredom, and frustration, Bobby speaks up. "Got a call from your brother," he says from where he's leaning over a rusty pick up truck. 

Dean almost loses his grip on the pen, dragging it across the paper and nearly tearing it apart; he lifts his head and can't quite hide the shock on his face. "Sam?" he says dumbly. 

"No, the other brother you have. Of course I meant Sam, you doofus." 

Dean glares. "It was rhetorical, dammit. What did Sam want?" 

"Asked about you." Bobby mumbles it under his breath, still not looking at Dean, and Dean can hardly hear him over the metallic clanking. "You'd think the kid would have enough damn decency to ask about me, too, but no." He doesn't sound all that upset about it; mostly he sounds like he's complaining for the sake of complaining - nothing new there. 

"Asked about me?" Dean says, mind stuck on the loop on that sentence; when the shock lets up, Dean's lips draw into a tight line, jaw working. "What does he care?" he asks, voice hard and sharp; since Sam's not willing to call Dean himself, Dean isn't sure if Sam's allowed to spy on him through Bobby. 

"I don't know," Bobby answers, shrugging. He slowly stands up straight, wipes his hands clean and finally turns to Dean. "He sounded stressed, though." 

"Well," Dean says, and ignores the way it stings, ignores the desire to get on the phone to call Sam himself. Sans a lone phone call to Bobby, Sam's made it pretty clear that Dean is unwelcome in his life. "Too bad for him, I guess." He shrugs. "Guess work is being a bitch. Bosses can be real mean fuckers."

For a moment, he thinks Bobby is going to chuck the piece of cloth he used to wipe his hands with at him. "Watch your tongue, boy, and be glad that I'm willing to put up with your ungrateful ass in the first place," he snaps. "And no. Your brother's worried about _you_." 

"Well, he doesn't have to be." Dean shrugs. 

Bobby watches him for a moment, face thoughtful. "Because of your new winged friend?" he asks, one eyebrow cocked up. 

Dean glares at him. "No," he draws out. "We're not even - I don't even know if we're _friends_ ," he says, and he's not even lying; he really has no idea what they are - Angel and Hunter, that's easy to figure out, but that's also the only easy part about the whole thing. Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak, that's a whole other can of worms, and one that Dean actively tries to avoid opening; his life is messy enough without trying to figure if befriending your superhero partner in crime is a good idea - if befriending is even what they're doing. 

Dean is dreading coming to the conclusion that, yes, he and Cas are friends and Dean would very much like them to remain so, because he's pretty sure they shouldn't. Sometimes, Dean still feels like panicking because Castiel shouldn't even know his name, let alone where he lives, or how he takes his coffee - and vice versa. 

Dean runs his hand down his face in frustration. 

Bobby watches Dean like he thinks he's being a complete and utter ass. "That question's not really rocket science, Dean," he says, and Dean practically feels the slap upside the head it is meant to be. 

_It's harder than you think,_ he thinks bitterly, but says nothing. Instead, he shrugs. "Yeah, whatever. Like I said, no need to worry. I'm fine. And if Sam's the one who roped you into putting me behind the desk - " 

Bobby grunts, cutting Dean off. "Your brother is not the only one who's worried about you, you bullheaded twerp," he snaps. 

Dean finds the idea of Sam actually worrying about Dean, enough to call someone to ask, pretty hard to believe; if he were actually worried, he would have wanted to keep an eye on Dean personally, wouldn't he? If family meant to Sam what it does to Dean, if he was _really_ worried, he wouldn't have said what he did, and he wouldn't have let Dean walk away as easily as he had. 

Then again, Dean and Sam always viewed family - and worrying about people in general - differently, and given how their lives turned out, maybe it was for the best. 

Dean clams up, then, suddenly tired; both tired of the conversation and just all around exhausted. He decides to pretend he didn't hear Bobby, and the conversation dies down as Bobby scoffs and mutters something about stubborn idjits; Dean goes back to his forms and calculations and Bobby digs back into the truck, banging stuff harder than before. 

It's just the two of them for a while - Benny being on a boat trip with Andrea for the week, and no customers in sight - when a nervous looking redhead walks into the shop. Dean looks up from the desk, glancing at her quickly, and instantly knows he's met her before. 

Bobby gives him a meaningful look from where he's standing, nonverbally leaving him to deal with her, and Dean isn't sure if he's trying to get Dean to hook up, or if he's just feeling too much like an old badger today to actually deal with customers himself. 

Dean stands, smiling his widest, most unprofessional smile, but he doesn't feel particularly smooth; he's hardly been on top of his game ever since the whole fiasco with Lisa - who Dean still hasn't called - and he hasn't been feeling it for a while now. Still, he tries just for the sake of keeping up appearances in front of Bobby. "Welcome to Singer's Salvage Yard," he says. "What can I do for you?" 

The woman walks all the way over to him, stopping in front of his desk; Dean's attempts to hit on her might have been a little wasted since she doesn't seem particularly responsive. "I'm looking for Dean Winchester," she says. "That's you, isn't it?" 

Dean does a double take; no one ever came into the shop looking for him, specifically, let alone a woman as familiar as this one. Suddenly Dean feels a whole lot less comfortable in her presence. "Depends on who's asking," he tells her, shuffling backwards slowly to put some more space between them. 

Dean's never had to scan the shop before like he would any of his other surroundings. He's always felt the safest in the shop, even more so than his own apartment, with maybe the exception of the Impala. The petite redheaded woman suddenly feels like a time bomb, ticking and ready to explode - or maybe Dean does; he can't actually tell. There is a shiver down his spine, though, at the thought of losing this little safe haven he's created here - then an even deeper dread at the thought of endangering Bobby and Benny. 

The woman's eyes, already big like a deer's, widen even further in her face. "Oh," she says. "I'm sorry. My name is Anna Milton," she says, and Dean knows for a fact that he's heard that name before. "I'm sorry if I came at a bad time, but I didn't know how else to get in touch. I need to talk to you. About Castiel." 

Two things happen at once; first, Dean realizes where he knows her from. She's the same woman who sat at Cas's table those few weeks ago at the Talbot's. Secondly, his stomach clenches, twisting like he's been dropped into cold water. "Is Cas okay?" he asks immediately. 

If Anna - Castiel's sister, if Dean remembers correctly; he never got around to actually reading the file Charlie pulled on Cas. He only ever skimmed it briefly, and then he began to get to know Cas himself, rendering the file virtually needless - is taken aback by the sudden concern, or the nickname, it doesn't show much on her face. There's a tiny flicker of something, a slight rise of her eyebrows, but that's gone before Dean has the time to worry about it. 

"Of course," she says. Dean can't help himself; he studies her face, then, comparing it with what he knows about Cas - they don't look all that much alike, not at the first glance, but when he takes a second look he sees the same sharp features - the strong cheekbones, the chapped lips - and something sad and otherworldly about her eyes that reminds him of Cas. 

It's strange, because years ago, Anna would have been just his type; even weeks ago, Dean would have leaned closer over the desk and given her a genuine smile, and a genuine effort. As it is, he thinks of Cas and how much he not only doesn't want to hit on his sister, but how much he just doesn't want to hit on Anna, regardless. 

"Castiel's fine, I just wanted to have a word with you. We could get coffee, or lunch - I don't wanna rid you of your lunch break." Then she adds, "If it's not a bad time, of course." 

Dean turns to Bobby, who just waves at him from where he's standing by the truck, pretending not to watch them. "Off with you, fool," he says, waving his hand dismissively. Dean can almost see the wheels spinning inside Bobby's head as he's putting two and two together, and he sighs, already hoping to avoid the lecture that's surely about to come. 

He turns back to Anna, smiling up at her. "It's fine," he says. "Let me just get my wallet and we can go grab some coffee."

 

They end up in a tiny coffee shop just a block away from the Yard; they walked there, mostly in silence, commenting awkwardly on the weather and joking lamely about Bobby's hostility. Even now, seated in the corner as far away from other people as possible, the silence stretches while they wait for their waitress to bring out their orders. 

Dean gets coffee, black with only a dash of sugar, and Anna eyes him, looking suspicious; Dean wonders if he's getting judged by his choice in coffee. It makes him nervous, because he doesn't even know why she's judging him in the first place; he realizes, being face to face with Cas sister's, that he would actually like to make a good impression on her. 

He doesn't need any more people telling him he's too dangerous to have around, even though he doesn't think it's Anna's call to make, anyway. 

"Since you haven't asked yet, I suppose you know who I am," she says, stirring her own cup. She doesn't seem apprehensive, though, even if she realizes Dean must have done his research on Cas. 

Dean shrugs, and lies, anyway. "He mentioned you, and I saw you at Talbot's those few weeks ago. I put two and two together," he says. 

Anna nods. "So did I," she says, and Dean takes it for the truce it is. They both spied on each other, if only a little. Dean can't say he's comfortable, or even fine, with it, but consciously he realizes the hypocrisy if he called Anna out on it. "But you can't blame a girl for wanting to know more." She smiles. It falls off her face when Dean doesn't bother to respond to her flirting any more that with a faint smile of his own. She sighs, going back to stirring her coffee. "I was worried," she admits. 

"About?" Dean asks. 

"About Castiel," Anna replies, snapping slightly. "Cas - and please, don't let anything I tell you change your opinion on my brother, unless it's for the better - he doesn't have many friends. Or - " she rolls her eyes, " - _any_ friends. He's never seemed very interested in other people, and I guess I was surprised when he befriended you."

Dean frowns. "So you, what? Went out to see if I'm a bad influence on him?"

"Yes," she says, eyeing Dean warily. "Wouldn't you, if you were in my place?"

Dean would; Dean _had_. He still remembers stalking Sam and the blond girl in 6th grade when he heard they were going to the bleachers to share a cigarette. He also remembers that Sam never appreciated it very much, not even when he was twelve, and can't imagine the fit Sam would throw if he were way past thirty. He wonders what Cas thinks about his sister interviewing his - according to her - only friend. He always seems so collected, so calm and capable, that it's hard for Dean imagine he would have anyone looking out for him, let alone that he would be okay with it. 

It must show on Dean's face because Anna sips from her cup and says, "He doesn't know I'm here." 

Dean snorts softly into his own cup. "I'm sure he would appreciate it," he says. 

The smile Anna gives his is partly amused, partly wry. "No, he wouldn't." It passes like an inside joke of sorts between them; older sibling to older sibling. 

Anna seems like one of those people that would be easy to talk to, even for Dean who mostly tries to keep to himself nowadays, but - and Dean can't help but feel the pang of remorse - talking is the only thing he can imagine them doing. 

Only weeks earlier, Anna would have been just his type, and she and Dean might have been having a very different conversation. As it is, not only doesn't Dean want to fuck Castiel's sister, or his superhero partner's sister - he just… Doesn't want to fuck Anna, period. 

He tries to blame it on how things went with Lisa, but there's only so much self-denial Dean can execute. His shoulders slump a little in defeat, because he's _screwed_.

"Dean," Anna says after a moment of silence, expectant on her part, stunned on Dean's. "I'm not here to test you. Although it might not look like it, I do actually respect Castiel's decisions. I'm here more as an older sister than as Castiel's handler." At Dean's surprised look, she adds. "For lack of a better term. I take care of the practicalities. His suit, navigation, weapons." Then she scowls at Dean with exasperation; an expression Dean himself wore more than once as an older sibling. "His _rent_ ," she adds, and it punches a laugh right out of Dean, because of course Cas would be the kind of person who wouldn't give a crap about that. 

He laughs into his coffee, grinning, shaking his head; when he looks up, Anna is watching him with a smile, but there's something in her expression that makes Dean feel hot, and not in the fun way, either; more like the _'naked in front of the class, revealing too much of your thoughts kind of hot'_ \- not exactly shame, but something close. He clears his throat, although it doesn't wipe the smile off Anna's face. "So, the struggling fashion designer crap, that's a cover story?" 

Anna stops smiling then, and Dean's almost ready to apologize, but she doesn't look angry or upset; mostly, she just looks surprised. "I see you've done your research," she says, voice low. Then she shrugs. "I had to call it something, and superhero costume designer isn't exactly profitable." 

"What does Cas do, anyway?" Dean blurts out suddenly, because he realizes he doesn't know; he's spent weeks with the guy on his heels, taking up space on the corner of his bed, and he still doesn't know anything about him. Nothing important, at least. 

Anna gives him a look so baffled Dean instantly regrets asking her in the first place. "Why don't you ask him?" she asks, sounding honestly confused, and Dean's shoulders slump. 

It's not that Dean never considered it; mostly, he hasn't yet because he doesn't want to sound like he's grilling Cas for info he might not want to give Dean. He never offered much to Dean on his own terms, after all. 

Something must show on his face, because Anna's softens and she says, "He won't know you care if you don't ask him, Dean. You should just ask." Her voice is soft in a way it hasn't been before, not even when she lowers it almost completely, preventing strange ears from hearing certain parts of their conversation; she sounds like she's telling Dean some horrible secret, like she knows something Dean doesn't. 

The hot feeling across Dean's skin is back, and Dean averts his gaze, looking at his now almost empty cup of coffee. "Yeah," he croaks out, partly to get her off his case, partly because he knows she's right. He should just suck it up and ask Cas if he wants to ever get to know him, instead of pumping his sister about him. His trust issues - and abandonment issues, or whatever else Dean knows he has and tries to ignore - be damned. 

After a beat off silence so awkward even Anna starts shifting in her seat, Dean says, "I should probably get back to work," and they both jump at the opportunity, sipping the rest of their drinks in single swallows and getting up hastily, almost tripping over themselves and each other. 

Once they're outside, they stop to face each other, ready to part ways. 

Dean grins at Anna, though he feels slightly sick to his stomach. "Did I pass the test?" he asks, trying to sound bold. 

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, like she's considering him. "I don't know, yet," she says, but she winks; then, she touches his forearm, gripping it for a second. "See you around, Dean." 

Dean watches Anna walk away and feels like he won a battle. 

 

Bobby doesn't let him off the hook easily. He only eyes Dean suspiciously for a while after he gets back, but eventually, he does asks, though not in the way Dean expected. "This Castiel - is he Angel?" 

Dean almost chokes on the Coke he's drinking. 

Bobby shoots him a dirty look. "Do you think I'm dumb, kid? I might just be a mechanic, but I can put two and two together." 

Dean coughs into his sleeve. "Dammit, Bobby," he says after he caught his breath. 

"What?" Bobby shrugs. "It's an honest to god question!" Dean glares at him for a second, and Bobby throws his arms out to the sides, only a little. "Well, is he?" 

Dean glares harder. "Yeah," he grits through his teeth, then, feeling strangely protective over that piece of information; he know Bobby is trustworthy - he's been keeping Dean's secret for years, and probably helped him more times than anyone else, regardless of how much he complains about it - but he still feels like saying, _You can't tell anyone! You shouldn't even know!_

But Bobby does something totally unexpected; he shakes his head like he's disappointed in Dean, and turns away, back to his work. 

Dean squares his shoulders defensively. "What?" 

Bobby waves his hand dismissively. "Nothing," he says. "Just thought you were past actively trying to get yourself killed." 

For a moment, Dean considers turning it into a joke; the anger is quicker to take hold, though, and Dean bristles with it. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, and it must sound angry enough, because Bobby turns to look at him. 

He doesn't look regretful, or apologetic; his face is drawn into a hard mask. "Fooling around with a Super is one thing," he says, "but him knowing your name? Babbling it out to random ladies? I thought you were smarter than that, Dean!" And then he says, "What were you even thinking?" and Dean goes _livid_ with his anger. 

Maybe it's all those years of pent up frustration, fear, and worry that he's not good enough finally rearing their ugly heads; maybe it's the guilt that's been piled up onto his shoulder since he was eight years old. Either way, he snaps, "I was thinking that finally, _finally,_ someone actually _wanted_ to be around me, instead of putting up with me because I'm their charity case. That, finally, someone treated me like an actual human being, and not like I'm a disaster waiting to happen and will bring a hailstorm on them just by existing!" 

Bobby opens his mouth to say something, looking taken aback, but Dean doesn't give him the chance. 

"Maybe I was just fucking glad that, for the first time in my miserable life, someone didn't treat me like I ruined myself just by trying to want to do something worthwhile with it!" 

"Dean - " Bobby starts, but Dean doesn't really listen. 

He grabs his jacket, pats his pocket for the car keys and turns around. "I'm going home," he announces, and walks away, ignoring Bobby calling his name. 

He should feel guilty, because Bobby isn't as guilty of these things as Sam and Dad were; but even Bobby has always treated Dean's Powers like something to be kept under wraps and mentioned as little as possible, or not at all. 

Den's tired of being treated like he's a failure because of something he has no power over; he's tired of being victimized because his father couldn't differentiate between his ten year old son and the bastard who decided to use his Powers to kill people, among them Dean's mother. 

He will start feeling guilty in a while, probably as soon as he gets into the Impala, but right now, Dean feels righteous. He feels liberated.


	5. Pt. IV

Dean doesn't mention Anna for the next few days; Cas doesn't either, which makes Dean think he still doesn't even know about it. He feels a slight resentment towards Anna for constructing that whole interrogation on Castiel's behalf and then not even telling him about it, leaving that to Dean, but it's a lazy, bleak feeling; no real heat behind it, whatsoever. 

They're on top of the building Dean began to think of as _their building_ ; the one Cas brought them to after they went to interview Ava. The thought makes him think of two completely unrelated things; that they still don't have anything on the case, despite Ava's intel, and whether Cas picked this place for any particular reason. Somehow, his mind strays more strongly on the last thing. 

Incidentally, thinking of actually asking Cas about it is what brings the visit Anna paid him back to his attention. Thinking that the time is as good - or bad - as it will ever be, Dean says, "I talked to your sister." 

Cas turns to him, slowly; he looks confused, squinting up at Dean like he's trying to read his mind. "You did?" 

Dean sips from the cup of coffee Cas brought from god knows where, probably scaring some baristas half to death - Dean's been talking about going with Cas on one of his coffee runs, just to see people react to Angel and Hunter showing up out of nowhere in the middle of a coffee shop, but he hasn't actually gone through with it, yet. 

He tries to reign in the smile that breaks out across his features; an effect Cas seems to have on him, more and more often. "Yeah," he says after a while. "She showed up at work, demanding to have a coffee with me." 

Dean eyes Cas over the cup, trying to look like he's not doing it. Cas seems oblivious either way; he averts his eyes, looking up, and says, "She's been very curious about you." 

"I kinda noticed," Dean says; he feels comfortable enough to grin now that Cas isn't probably going to get angry and drop Dean from ten thousand feet to his death. 

He can only see Cas's profile from this angle, Cas very pointedly looking anywhere but at Dean; he doesn't say anything for a while - Dean actually starts to worry that Cas might be upset again, but from what he can see, he doesn't look pissed. He looks thoughtful. "Though I'm only a younger brother to Anna, I suppose I'm to give you some kind of a warning," he says, still not looking at Dean. 

Dean's mouth falls open dumbly. He blinks. "What?" 

"To treat Anna well," Cas clarifies and finally turns to Dean again, face blank and unreadable. 

"Dude, no," Dean says immediately, leaning forward in the chair he's sitting in. "No, no. I'm not gonna fuck your sister!" Dean winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, though Cas doesn't seem to react in any visible way. "Or _date_ your sister," Dean amends. "Besides, she wasn't interested in me like that. She was mostly just concerned what my intentions towards you are." 

The jokes flies right by Castiel. Dean rolls his eyes.

Cas looks confused for a moment, eyes wide, mouth hanging open slightly. Dean stares for longer than he probably should. "Oh," Cas says. "I apologize, then. I hope she didn't cause you any trouble at work?" 

Dean shakes his head, but thinks that Cas hasn't been this formal with him since he accidentally left with his headset. He wants to stand up and shake the guy a little, yell into his face, _Talk to me! What's going through your head?_ because Cas always has been, and still is, completely unreadable to Dean. Instead, he leans back in his chair. "No, it was okay. Though my boss - he, uh." Dean clears his throat, already regretting mentioning it; the fact that he has to resist the urge to blurt out to Cas how much his fight with Bobby has been bothering him ever since is all sorts of scary. "Nevermind," he says awkwardly. 

Cas watches him curiously, head tilted to one side. 

"Any other family members I should expect in the future?" Dean says with a smirk, relieved now that the previous topic has been dropped. 

Cas shakes his head slowly. "I don't have any more family," he says, making Dean's eyebrows go up with surprise. 

"No? No parents to threaten me? Grandparents, another older sister?" 

Castiel keeps shaking his head. "I don't have any other siblings other than Anna. I never knew my mother, and my father left us a long time ago," he says, like it's no big deal. 

Dean's face scrunches up in sympathy. "Dude, Cas," he says. "Sorry that your dad was a dick. It's probably not gonna help much, but - uh. Mine hated me, too." 

It's by a miracle that Dean's voice doesn't break at the end of the sentence; while Dean knew this for a while, could rationalize it for a while, too, he never said it out loud before. _My Dad hated me,_ he thinks, and wonders why does it still hurt as much as it does, when it's old history, anyway. 

He wishes he had Cas's detachment; but then again, who knows how bad things must have been for him, if admitting your family has abandoned you causes no strong reaction. 

Dean adds, "And my brother…" and trails of, shrugs. 

When he looks at Cas again, he finds him watching Dean with the most confused expression he's ever seen on his face. "Why?" he asks, eyebrows drawn together. "You're a good man." 

Dean blinks, several times; there's a dull ache at the back of his throat. "Pretty sure my family would disagree," he says, and watches as Cas's face twists into something darker, more sinister. 

"Dean," he says, "In all the years that I've known you, and especially in the past three weeks, I came to realize all you ever do is help others. I fail to see how that makes you anything but a good person." 

Dean squirms in his seat, gritting his teeth; there's something delighted taking hold in his chest, though. His face feels hot; Dean wonders if he's blushing as furiously as he thinks he is, and if Cas can see in the street lights. 

"Yeah, well," he says, at a loss for words. "My mom, she was - " and that's when his voice fails Dean, finally; every single time, even after twenty-four years, still. Cas doesn't say anything, waiting patiently, and Dean licks his lips before he continues. "She was murdered by a Super," he explains, feeling like he should; to a certain extent feeling like he owes it to Cas, but mostly because he wants to tell him, wants Cas to know. "My Dad never came to terms that one of his sons became one, too." 

Dean can hear Cas take a breath, though he's looking away; fortunately, their earpieces crackle into life, Charlie's voice carrying over, sounding strangely stunned, much more serious than is common for her. "Guys." 

She's been communicating with them less and less as the days go by; when Dean was on his own, she was constantly on line, chattering away in his ear. Ever since Cas came around, she's been leaving them alone more often, usually only communicating when she was needed, or when giving out info on whatever case they might be on at any given time.

Charlie says, sounding breathless, "There's been another fire." 

Dean's back goes rigid, and he turns to Cas, exchanging a look. "Where?" he asks. 

Charlie rattles off an address, and Dean eyes his unfinished cup of coffee ruefully; he never gets to finish the damn thing. "It's suspicious," Charlie says, then, sounding almost frustrated by it. "Nothing about this seems to fit the pattern." 

And Dean has to agree; the address Charlie gave them alone - as far as Dean knows, a part of the City's docks that's mostly unused and abandoned - makes Dean's hair stand on end. "We won't know unless we go and see for ourselves," he says, shrugging, and turns to Cas who's waiting, obviously ready to go, mask already back in place. 

"I'm just saying, you guys be careful. If something seems off, just get the hell out of there." 

But like hell they will; for the first time since this damn case started, Dean actually has a chance to be fast enough to come face to face with whoever is behind it, and judging by the determined expression on his face, Cas isn't all that keen on running, either. 

Like hell they're running. 

Dean grins lopsidedly. "You know me, Charlie. When have I ever run from anything?" he says, and nods to Cas, mentally steeling himself for getting zapped across the City while Cas reaches out for him and grips his shoulder. 

 

Dean knows something's wrong the moment they appear in front of the burning dock warehouse. 

Cas does something he's never done before; he stumbles upon landing. In front of them, the fire goes out in a matter of seconds like it was never even there in the first place, before either of them can get their bearings. There's only very little of it left, near the ground and burning steadily, giving off a faint glow like a fireplace might. 

Next to him, Cas gasps for breath, and Dean would have reached out to steady him if his own heart wasn't beating like mad, trying to jump out of his chest. He feels _wrong_ , like he's too empty, too tired. There's something in the air that's heavy and tiresome, and spells, _Bad fucking news._

"What the hell," Dean says, voice low. "Charlie?" he asks, but there's only static on her end. 

Before he can say anything, ask for Cas to get them the fuck out of there because this is so obviously a trap, he feels him stiffen beside him, spine straightening finger-snap fast. He moves closer to Dean, putting his arm in front of Dean's chest to stop him from going forward. "There's someone there." He points straight forward, towards the fire. Dean squints.

There is a silhouette flickering in the light; Dean can't see all that well in the dark, against the low light, but he thinks - he thinks it's a woman, small and petite, her hips cocked to one side, hair blowing around her head. 

Dean hisses out, "Charlie!" but the static doesn't go away. He turns to Cas instead. "I take it back," he says quietly, moving to stand closer to him. "I don't like this. We should go, man." 

The silhouette moves towards them, then, in a fast, rapid pace. Cas grips Dean's elbow and tugs a little; Dean closes his eyes and waits for the by now already familiar feeling of taking flight - but nothing happens. He opens his eyes and looks Cas's way, brows knitted together. "You ruffle your feathers the wrong way?" But Cas doesn't even look Dean's way; his face is pale, looking shocked, and Dean's face turns from confusion to concern. "Hey, Feathers?" Dean tries. 

Cas's hand falls away from his elbow. "I can't," he says weakly, in a way that sounds nothing like him. 

Dean stares at him for a second, his mouth hanging open. Before he can so much as take a breath, another voice, a female one, calls, "Sorry, boys! You're not going anywhere." 

They both look up towards the woman, now standing only several feet from them. Dean frowns, squaring his shoulders, and takes an instinctive step in front of Cas who's still by his side, frozen in shock - something Dean's never seen in all those years he’s known him. He didn't even think Cas was capable of going into shock; if Cas is anything, it's calm and collected, even when faced with Dean's infuriating, inappropriate sense of humor, or his misplaced anger. 

"Aw," the woman coos; Dean can see her clearly now, the toothy, predatory grin horribly out of place in a heart-shaped face framed by wavy brown hair. She's tiny, but there's a gleam in her eyes that makes even Dean uneasy. "Look at you, all alpha male protective over your pal here. How sweet." 

Dean goes for a cheeky grin, but it turns to a grimace of anger instead. "Seems like you know nothing about what you're up against here, sweetheart, because trust me - he don't need protecting." 

The woman makes a few tsk-ing noises. "We'll see about that, shall we?" 

She takes three strides forward, then, and Dean makes a decision. "Sorry," he says, "I normally don't hit girls." And as soon as she's close enough, his arm snaps forward towards her face. He doesn't even try to rein in his strength, going at her full force - all the anger and frustration powering the swing of his punch. 

It never even makes contact with her skin. 

The woman catches and holds Dean's fist in her own, much smaller hand, and no matter how hard Dean tries to shake her, it doesn't yield. "Sorry?" she repeats, eyes crinkling with delight. "For what?" 

Before Dean can even blink, she twists his arm back with more power than should be humanly possible for a person to expend. Dean screams when he feels the bone break; he goes to his knees with a choked off moan of pain, curling around his broken limb when she finally lets go off it. 

The fight must have finally broken Cas out of his stupor, because Dean distantly hears him call out for him then let out a choked off moan not unlike the one of Dean's own, followed by a dull thud. Dean's vision is swimming in and out of focus, and his eyes water, but he lifts his eyes and looks up to see the woman with a hand on Cas's forehead. Cas is on his knees in front of her with a vacant, empty look on his face. 

Dean's heart skips the beat in that moment, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded, because while he doesn't understand a lot of things about this situation, he's not too far gone to understand that they're losing. 

Dean thinks, _We're going to die,_ but still, he grunts and pushes himself to his feet shakily. "Hey!" 

The woman turns to him and hushes him. "Why don't you take a breather?" she says and presses her palm to his forehead, too. 

The moment her palm touches Dean's skin, it's like all his strength drains out of him. 

 

The next few minutes pass Dean in a haze. He's vaguely aware of being dragged inside one of the buildings by his collar, the suit biting into his neck uncomfortably, making it hard to breathe. He feels his hands being tied up behind his back; it hurts like a bitch, but Dean barely has the strength to groan in pain. 

He doesn't know how long it takes before he's conscious enough to properly perceive his surroundings; several minutes, at least. He blinks to clear his vision - he's in an empty room, rundown and broken, burnt - it still smells of smoke, sort of. The woman is sitting on a wooden box, legs crossed; Cas is slumped by her feet, propped on the same wooden box. His mask is off, lying discarded on the ground next to him, and the woman's hand is running through Cas's hair in a grotesque parody of tenderness. It makes Dean's blood run cold in his veins. 

"You're awake," she says; Dean's eyes slide to her slowly, growing unfocused in the process. "Finally. We need to talk." 

Dean's head slumps to the side again. "You need to go fuck yourself, bitch," he says. 

"Now, now," she says. "If I were you, I wouldn't offend the lady holding you and your bestie here hostage, would I?" she chastises and Dean swallows painfully through his too dry throat, closing his eyes. 

"Yeah, what's up with that? You got a beef to pick with me? Or him? Because I don't even know you, _lady_." 

She whistles and laughs a little, throwing her head back. "Wow," she says. "Such a pretty face, such an incompetent Superhero. All those months spent chasing after me, and you don't even know my name." She turns to him, grinning from ear to ear, manic. 

Dean levels her with the sourest of looks he can manage in the state he's currently in. "I don't care about your name, darling. I just want to see you dead." He groans and tries to twist his wrists out of the rope she bound him with - not very expertly, too, to his luck. If his arm wasn't broken, he would have been out of them by now; as it is, he grits his teeth against the pain and the desire to just go limp and spare himself more agony, and twists his hand again, testing the ropes, pulling at them, loosening them up.

"You're so crude for the good guy," she says with a smirk. "Clarence here is much more pleasant to deal with." She looks at Cas and pets his head in a strangely affectionate way, almost like a dog, before turning back to Dean. "I'm Meg, by the way. I think you should know the name of the person who's going to be your killer." 

Dean almost bursts out laughing, feelings hysterical; he bites his lip against it before he blurts out anything. He can't believe his luck - and the messed up way his luck comes to him - that he not only got a villain who can't tie a person up, but that Meg seems bent on giving him a chance to figure out how to get him and Cas out of this mess. All he has to do is keep her talking.

With the last final push, Dean drags his wrist free of the rope; he lets out a pained growl, scrunching his eyes and gritting his teeth so hard he can feel them chip. He pants for a moment, swallowing back the bile rising at the back of his throat, and cracks one eye open. 

His gaze shifts to Cas first, still just as limp and out of it as he was seconds ago. Then he turns to Meg. She doesn't look like she noticed that Dean got rid of her binds, and Dean leans his head back against the wall behind him, exhaling in relief. "Nice to know you don't sugarcoat what you are." 

He watches his through half-lidded eyes, breathing heavily

Meg rolls her eyes. She says, "You keep telling yourself that you're any better. At least I know what I want, and I go for it." She looks at Cas again, and Dean's blood boils with rage. Meg’s smile falls off right then, her face turning oddly serious. "Now, let's move on to the more important things." 

"Like what?" 

Meg cards her fingers through Cas's hair. "Him. And others you know who are like him."

Dean watches her for a moment. "What are you going to do to him?" he asks. 

"Oh, so we're gonna play twenty questions? Okay, how about this? You answer one of mine, I answer one of yours. That's fair, right?" 

Dean looks around himself, looking for an escape, but sees nothing. He turns to Meg. "I don't know what gave you the idea that I know any other Supers, but I don't." 

"Don't say that," Meg says, obviously feigning disappointment. "You know what happens to hostages once they're no longer useful." 

Dean scowls at her. "You're going to kill me either way," he says. "Why bother?" 

Meg smirks, but it's humorless. "I might kill you first, so you don't have to watch him die," she says, nodding towards Cas, and Dean's face blanches. Meg, unconcerned, continues. "I might even do it quickly."

Dean grits out through his teeth, "My handler." And while his stomach twists knowing he's giving out Charlie's most guarded secret, he knows that she's smart enough not to let Meg find her. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised to find out Charlie's packing her bags right now; from what he knows, it wouldn't be the first time. "I can't tell you where to find her, but that won't be a problem for you, right? That's what you do. You find Supers and - what? Touch them inappropriately?" 

Meg shrugs, smiling. "Something like that," she says. "I take other people's Powers. I didn't want yours at first, not all that much - I remember watching you from the sidelines, wrecking your brain trying to figure me out, feeling that you were _something_ \- then I followed you, stalked you for a while, and found out who you actually were. I remember thinking, god, all that effort, wasted. Then I found out that you hung out with Clarence, here - and that was a prize I wanted to get my hands on!"

Dean's eyebrows fly to his hairline. "Take? _Take?_ That's what this is all about? You kill people for their Powers?" The laugh that comes out of his throat is weak, breathy and pained. "You sick son of a bitch. How do you even find them?" 

Meg shakes his head at him. "Yours won't be the first I took," she says. "I can _feel_ them." 

Dean huffs out a bitter laugh; all this time, he's been looking for a motive, a reason, while dealing with the Joker personified. "You sadistic SOB. What I don't get is, why do all this, huh?" Dean asks, anyway. "What's your endgame. You wanna suck up every Super alive and rule the world, or - " 

"That sounds nice, but... It's really that much simpler. Tell me, Dean," Meg says, then, and crosses her legs the other way. "What made _you_ become like this? Why be a superhero when you could be happy, live a healthy, disease-free life with a wife and two and a half kids? Or - " She smirks and does the thing thing with her palm that looks vaguely like she's petting Cas's hair. Dean's can't look away; the vacant look in Cas's eyes, Meg's wannabe tenderness; it makes him feel sick to his stomach. "A husband, I guess. You could have gotten a dog, maybe. Wouldn't that have been cute?" 

Dean scowls at her. 

"No, but tell me, really. Why become a Super, Dean?" 

Dean frowns, partly trying to drag this out until he seen an opening. "I'm not sure I'm following your crazy train of thoughts," he tells her. 

"If you didn't have the powers you do, would you be out there, saving people?" Meg asks and Dean looks up at her with wide eyes. "If you're thinking no, then you'd be right. Take Clarence for an example. Little Angel, God's soldier." She does the little pseudo-petting movement again, and Dean grits his teeth, growls a little in his throat. "We do what we do because we've been given the abilities to do it. Clarence here flies, you play nurse to a city full of petty crime. And I? I just use the powers that were given to me, Dean." She looks him in the eyes. "Why does that make me a bad person?" 

"You're insane," Dean breathes out, the hairs on his arms standing on ends. He looks at Cas again, who still looks far away, as he has since Meg got her paws on him. 

"Maybe," Meg asks and shrugs. "But I'm winning! And I'm properly enjoying it." She stands up, then, tugs Cas forward a little by the front of his suit. "You're gonna witness my next big victory, and then all my attention will go to you, Dean." 

She starts leaning in towards Castiel's face; Dean sees his head loll to the side a little, but not enough to get away from Meg's lips. "Hey. Hey!" 

Meg pays him no attention; her eyes are fixed on Cas, gleeful and hungry, and Dean realizes that she's not going to kiss him - she's going to kill him. He doesn't know how, doesn't know half the things he'd like to know, but he knows that there won't be an opening for him to strike. 

And that thought is unbearable. Dean springs to his feet with no plan at all, ignoring the throbbing in his arm - barely registering it - with only the intention of somehow buying more time, hoping that maybe Cas will come to. 

Meg's head snaps to the side, eyes wide in shock, reacting a second too late; for a moment, Dean expects to bounce off her like she's a brick wall, and not a human being - after all deflected Dean's punch like it was nothing. It doesn't happen, though - when Dean barrels into her she stumbles backwards, breath loudly knocked out of her lungs. 

They don't fall to the ground after a step, like Dean expects; there's the loud sound of shattering glass and the feeling of free fall, and Dean wonders how high above the ground they are. 

He closes his eyes and waits for the impact. 

 

Castiel feels like waking up from a long, unplanned nap - stupefied and dazed. He breathes for a few seconds, struggling to get his thoughts under control, and then lifts his head, looking around. 

The last few minutes rush to him like a rubber band snapping back into place; he gasps and searches for any signs of Dean, or their assailant, and pushes himself to his feet quickly when he sees neither of them. 

"Dean!" he calls out, but the echo of his own voice is the only answer he receives. He presses his fingers to the earpiece, but is met with only static. Still he tries, "Charlie?" but unsurprisingly, no one replies. 

Castiel swears under his breath; a gesture he wouldn't have done only weeks ago, one that he recognizes he picked up from Dean. He looks around, ignoring the panic that threatens to take over, and searches for any clues that might tell him where Dean or the woman might be. 

He walks around aimlessly, frowning, the sound of his breathing too loud in the surrounding silence; he tests his Powers to see if they work again, moving only a few feet, and feels a great deal of the crippling anxiety he's been feeling leave him when they do. On the other hand, it only gets replaced by a _different_ kind of fright that seems to only get bigger and heavier with every passing second that he's no closer to finding Dean. 

He stops when he reaches the broken window; when he looks down he doesn't expect to see anything, and almost doesn't - but something shines in the dim moonlight and catches his attention, and Castiel squints. 

It's a reflection from a necklace, Castiel realizes; a necklace resting on the chest of the woman lying on the ground, hair splayed out around her head. Castiel's heart nearly stops, and his eyes search in the dark for any signs of Dean. 

He flies instantly when he spots him, lying on his side only inches away. He's next to him in a second, crouching over Dean's sprawled form - he doesn't dare to turn him, his hands hovering above him uselessly. 

Cas leans down, trying to see anything in Dean's face, pressing two shaking fingers to his neck, looking for a pulse. He exhales loudly when he finds it, rapid and uneven, but clearly there. "I hope you didn't jump through the window," he murmurs to no one in particular, and looks up to measure the distance - it's only one floor, only about twelve feet, but even that seems terrifying when Castiel imagines it. 

"Actually, I _ran_ through it." 

Castiel's head whips back down to Dean so fast it hurts. He says Dean's name again and leans down; Dean's eyes are closed but there's a small, pained smirk tugging on his lips - it looks more and more like a grimace with each passing second. "My apologies, then," Cas says, badly concealed relief evident in his voice. 

"It was about time I returned the favor and saved your ass for once, don't you think?" Dean’s voice is strained, hoarse, breathy. He has to stop several time throughout the sentence to gasp for breath. His eyes are screwed shut. 

Castiel's stomach nearly does a backflip. "If it means you're going to get yourself killed, I'd rather you stayed in my debt, then." Then, all joking aside, Castiel says, "Dean, how badly are you injured?" 

"Jeez, Cas, I don't know," Dean says. "I fell out of a window, so take a guess." He starts turning slowly; when Castiel reaches out to assist him, Dean grips one of his arms with his own. They don't let go, not even when Dean's lying fully on his back, breathing deeply and staring at the sky. "I think I'm mostly just banged up," he says and turns to Cas with a weak grin. "I know how to fall like a pro. Unlike Meg here." He points towards the women, still motionless several feet away.

Castiel looks over to where Dean's pointing, feeling momentarily ashamed he didn't pay any attention to hern until now; but from the way her head is bent, her eyes staring past them, unblinking, it's way too late to help her, anyway. 

"I pushed her," Dean says, voice oddly thick. "I _killed_ her." 

Castiel squeezes his hand, but doesn't say anything on the subject - he's learned that Dean is not the kind of person who takes kindly to placating and patronizing, nor is he someone who underrates the value of human life. 

There's a low sound of sirens in the distance.

"You need to be taken to a hospital, Dean," Castiel says. 

"Nah," Dean says. "You can't take me to a hospital dressed in my clown costume, dude, that would suck for everyone involved. Besides, I just got the breath knocked out of me, 's all." He groans, and starts pushing himself to a sitting position. 

Castiel instinctively reaches behind Dean's back to support him, relieved when Dean doesn't fight him, taking immense comfort in the warmth of Dean's back against palm. He pulls Dean more firmly against his shoulder in an attempt to get him as comfortable as possible, at a loss as to how to proceed otherwise. 

"Dude, I'm fine," Dean says, huffing out a quiet, amused breath, but he leans into Castiel. "There's this friend of mine, Bobby Singer, who can help with this," he says, and points to his other hand, lying limply against Dean's abdomen, the elbow visibly swollen already. "But other than that I'm fine." 

Castiel nods when Dean gives him the address, although he's never been in the part of town Dean mentions. He just hopes he can get them there without any bigger trouble, despite never having been there personally.

The sirens are gradually getting louder, and even Dean seems to notice them now. He looks at the woman, then turns to Cas; his face is carefully blank, but his whole body stiffens at the sight of her dead body. 

"What are we going to do about her?" he asks. 

"We should probably leave her. The authorities are on the way." 

Dean nods stiffly and closes his eyes, seemingly bracing himself for the flight. "Alright, let's get out of here." He grits the words through his teeth. 

Castiel hesitates for a second. "I apologize in advance if the landing is particularly rough," he says, because he doesn't feel very sure of his own abilities to move them both without an accident. 

"Great," Dean says, but he sounds more amused - resigned - than angry. "No, it's okay. Let's get it over with." 

Castiel curls over Dean, holding him as tight as he dares, and moves. 

 

They're in what appears to be Bobby Singer's backyard, relatively unscathed and with minimal noise - Castiel is inclined to take it as a success. Dean, on the other head, is shaking, breathing heavily, and Castiel frowns. "Dean?" 

Dean gulps down a mouthful of air before replying. His voice is weak and hoarse when he does. "I'm fine, just gimme a sec to catch my breath." 

Castiel wants to argue with that, but decides not to; he simply narrows his eyes at Dean, but lets him take his time. While he keeps his hand on Dean's shoulder he leans back, sits on haunches, and waits. There's a dog barking somewhere nearby. "Dean, tell me we're in the right place." 

Dean looks up and around. "Yeah, that's Bobby's damn dog," he says, then mutters, "Shut up, Rumsfeld," and turns to Cas. "Let's get this show on the road." He smiles wryly and grits his teeth and, before Cas can do anything, starts pushing himself to his feet.

While he manages to heave himself to his feet, Dean still leans heavily against Cas when Cas moves to support him. Together, they make their way through the yard - a scrap yard, Castiel realizes; full of old cars and random pieces of rusted metal. "Who is Bobby Singer?" Castiel asks. 

Dean's steps are surer and more certain with every passing feet. "He's my boss," he says flatly. 

Castiel frowns. "Is this wise?" he asks, and Dean hums. 

The back door to the house, looking just as beat up at any car around it, swings open, revealing a gruff looking man wielding a shotgun in their direction. 

Dan grins, and croaks out, "Hey, Bobby!" 

Castiel stands straight as a ramrod, and for a moment, expects Bobby Singer to actually shoot them; but then the gun gets lowered and Bobby hollers, "You goddamn fool!" 

Dean chuckles and pats Cas's shoulder. 

 

Castiel is pretty sure that fifteen minutes later, Dean regrets not going to the hospital. He stands by and watches Bobby set Dean's broken arm with only two lousy Tylenol and a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and while he's never had broken bones himself, he knows that the lack of painkillers must be excruciating. If Dean's choked off scream is anything to go by. 

"So, this Meg," Charlie says in one of the rare moments of silence not interrupted by Dean's pained groans or Bobby's cussing, "she was absorbing other Supers’ Powers?" 

Dean shrugs and takes a swing from the bottle. "Among other things." 

"And the house fires, they were just - " 

"A way to get rid of evidence, a sign of pure evil, a proof that she was a fucking wacko?" Dean grits his teeth. "I don't know, okay? I didn't exactly have the time to get her whole life story. Though she _tried_." 

They're all silent for a moment; Castiel watches Bobby sew Dean up, partly in morbid fascination, but mostly with concern. 

"Huh," Charlie says, then. "Guess she just wanted to watch the world burn." 

Dean bursts out laughing, groaning when the movement causes Bobby to tug at the needle sharper than necessary. "I can't believe you went there," he says, but it's humorless; the hints of a smile fall off quickly, and Dean hangs his head. He grimaces at the sight of his suit, most of it torn, the left sleeve cut off completely by Bobby. "Ellen is gonna kill me," he says mournfully. 

"I'll talk to her in the morning," Charlie says. "There's gonna be a lot to do, so - you'll be okay, right?" she asks and Dean mutters a quiet, "Of course." The call, carried through Bobby's old cell phone, disconnects. 

Castiel frowns. "Who is Ellen?" he asks, brows drawn together, ignoring the dirty look Bobby aims at him. 

"Someone who's gonna kick my ass for destroying her work," Dean says. 

Bobby takes the bottle of whiskey from Dean's fingers then pours it over the gash on Dean's left shoulder he's been sewing shut, prompting a hiss out of Dean's mouth. "If you're not careful enough there won't be much to kick one of these days," Bobby growls, and Dean's shoulders sag. 

"It's not like I planned to fall through the window," he says weakly. "But she would have killed Cas if I didn't do something, so - "

"You shouldn't risk your life for me, Dean," Cas says soberly. 

Dean glares at him. "I risk my life for people I don't even know all the goddamn time. It's my fucking prerogative to risk it for someone who I actually give a crap about if I want to," he snaps, and Bobby bangs the long, curled needle into the bowl full of disinfectant. 

"And it's my fucking prerogative to kick you two the hell out if you insist on fighting like a married couple," he says, shoving the whiskey back at Dean along with an untitled bottle of pills. "Take a swing and get the hell out of my sight. There's a bed upstairs, and don't you dare show up downstairs before noon." Bobby wipes his hands on a piece of cloth and turns around. Castiel can hear him mutter, "Goddamn idjits," under his breath, before he leaves the room without looking back. 

Dean is looking after him with a frown before he turns to Castiel; faced with his confused expression, Dean waves his good hand. "He always gets like that when I show up looking a bit worse for wear." 

"I would say you look a bit worse than that," Cas tells him, and Dean chuckles, pushing himself to his feet from the chair he's been sitting on. 

"And you ain't seen nothing yet," he says with a weak smile. 

Castiel decides not to pursue the topic and further; Dean seems tired and defensive, not to mention in pain; he studies the pills in his hands, frowning. "Do you wish to go home?" Castiel asks. 

Dean turns to him slowly. "Sorry, Cas, but I don't think I could go through one of your zapping party tricks without puking all over my shoes right now," he says. "Hell, I'm not even sure I feel like taking the Vicodin right now. Do I want to risk pulling a Jimi Hendrix tonight? I don't think so." He runs his hand down his face. 

Castiel notices how uncommonly pale Dean looks. "Can you walk?" 

Dean scowls. "I'm tired, not crippled," he says, but they end up going up the stairs shoulder to shoulder, anyway, Dean leaning heavily on Cas. "Sorry," he says. "It's the adrenalin leaving my body, makes me feel like I could just - " He waves his hand, the one in the makeshift casting, and pulls a face. 

_You're hurt, not tired,_ Castiel thinks but doesn't reply, and neither of them says anything until they reach the bedroom Bobby talked about. 

"It's okay, you can go," Dean says. "You don't have to stay because you feel guilty or whatever." He starts tugging at his suit clumsily, facing away from Castiel. 

"That's not why I stay," Cas says. 

The bedroom is small, barely big enough to fit a bed, a small coffee table and two grown men. Castiel could touch Dean from where he's standing, if he truly wanted to, if he dared, but he doesn't; he's not very good at reading people, has always left this to his sister who is generally much more capable. From where he's standing, the stiffening of Dean's shoulder could mean anything, and Castiel doesn't dare to hope. 

"You must be the only one, then," Dean says after a while, and turns to Castiel. His face has not regained any of its usual color yet, his eyes standing out in a stunning contrast to his skin even in the half-light of the room. Castiel feels stricken by the raw emotions visible on Dean's face. 

"I'm sure that's not true. There's also Charlie," he says, but Dean laughs sourly. 

"Charlie knows she's better off staying as far away from me as possible," he says; then his voice breaks, his shoulders sag. "Cas, I almost got you killed tonight. Fuck, _I killed Meg,_ and she was a - just a dumb, lost kid. My brother, Bobby - they're all right. I put everyone around me in danger, so just - you should just go." Dean averts his eyes, face twisted into a grimace of grief and self-loathing, and turns away. 

It's wrong. Castiel reaches out, gripping Dean's shoulder to stop him; he doesn't know anything about Dean's brother or Bobby Singer, except that they're mistaken about this, about Dean. Knows that Dean is wrong about _himself_. "That couldn't be more untrue," he says quietly, as sincerely as he can. "It's only because of you that I didn't _die_ tonight, Dean. You're a protector, not a murderer. I'm sorry you were made to believe otherwise."

Dean watches Castiel for a moment, opening and closing his mouth like he's at a loss for words, his chest heaving; Castiel wonders if it's his injuries finally catching up with him, the adrenalin finally having worn off. He fears for a second that Dean might collapse, and he holds him all the more firmly. 

He doesn't realize how close to each other they are standing until Dean takes a step forward and closes the distance between them - he grips Castiel's wrist with his uninjured hand and bends it out of the way, and Castiel can feel Dean's casted forearm against his abdomen when Dean kisses him. 

It's a surprising turn of events, but not unwelcome; it takes a few moments for Castiel to overcome his surprise, and then he lays his free palm where he's sure he won't hurt Dean - against the side of Dean's neck. He feels Dean's pulse through their skin. He closes his eyes and moans softly, his whole body relaxing. 

He feels Dean do the same, body pliant against Cas's, fitting against him like a puzzle piece, but when they break apart after what feels like a moment too short, Dean is wide-eyed and pale. "Oh," he says. " _Oh._ I didn't fuck up?" 

Castiel shakes his head, his palm still resting at the point where Dean's neck meets his shoulder, relishing in the warmth of Dean's skin. "Of course not," he says. 

Dean closes his eyes and breathes out; he drops his head against Cas's shoulder, then, sagging his whole weight against Castiel's frame. 

Cas is tired - he's exhausted, in fact - but gladly accepts the additional weight. 

"I was fucking terrified," Dean admits in a quiet, hoarse voice. He sounds wrecked, and exhausted, and like he's on the verge of losing consciousness. "When I thought she was gonna kill you. I was _terrified_ , Cas." 

"So was I," Cas tells him. "When I came to and you were nowhere in sight. When I realized you had fallen through the window." 

Dean snorts. "That was a dumb move," he says. 

Castiel nods, digging his chin into Dean's shoulder in the process. It feels strangely reassuring. "That it was." 

"I need to sit down, I think," Dean says then, and starts to slant down almost immediately. 

Castiel walks them towards the bed, only several feet away, and helps Dean down, glad when Dean doesn't fight him. He clings to Cas instead, pulling him down next to him, against him, and Castiel goes willingly. 

"Just give us a minute," Dean mumbles, leaning against Castiel's side. "I want to take the suit off, but let's just - just give us a minute." 

"Of course," Cas says. They sit in the dark and silence, but with Dean pressed against him, sighing contently, Cas has never felt lighter.


	6. Pt. V

"I sometimes used to sleep here before I found my own place," Dean says when Cas asks about the pile of clothes - all in Dean's size, old and washed out - inside the bedside table drawer. Dean is slowly peeling himself out of the suit, body stiff like an old man's, face pinched in a pained grimace as the material drags across his cuts and stitches. "But given the circumstances, I decided, what the hell, let's keep some spare clothes here, just in case." He grunts, pulls at the sleeve Bobby didn't cut off. He turns to Cas. "You staying?" 

Castiel eyes Dean, wondering if he needs help - or wants it. He feels like he should leave, but doesn't want to. "Does it happen often?" he asks. 

Dean shrugs halfheartedly. He grins at Castiel's wide-eyed look of surprise. "What? It's not that shocking. I fight crime on my own, I get thrown around every now and then." 

"I always assumed you could heal yourself," Castiel admits, a little ashamedly. 

Dean's eyebrows fly to his hairline. "People really think that?" he asks, then grins wryly. "That would be fucking convenient, but no. Obviously, I don't," and points to his now naked torso. Castiel looks him up and down, eyes skimming the bruises, some of them fading but most of them only just forming on his skin; he lingers on the numerous scars covering Dean's body - some of them pink and fresh and some of them thin and silvery, old. Castiel can't imagine getting those kind of injuries from _'getting thrown around every now and then.'_

Castiel only has two scars; one a round mess of skin on his shoulder left by a gunshot wound, the other on his upper arm from getting sliced in a moment of hesitation. He frowns, and watches Dean put on a t-shirt, slowly and carefully. 

Dean sighs a breath of relief when he finally slides onto the bed next to Castiel, but he doesn't look relaxed; his eyebrows are pinched, his features dark as a thundercloud. The fingers of his unbroken hand are curled into a tight fist. 

"You're upset," Castiel says, confused - he expected Dean to be happier now that the Fires have been dealt with, and Meg isn't coming back to deliver any more pain. 

"Hell yeah I'm upset," Dean says turning to look at Cas. 

"But we've won, and came out of this fight alive." 

Dean's frown deepens. "Won?" he asks, then laughs quietly, mostly to himself, and hangs his head with a disbelieving shake. "Would Lily Baker think we've won? Ava? What about all the people who lost their families in the Fires? What about _Meg_?" He looks up to meet Cas's eyes again, and Cas fears judgement for a moment; there's only sadness in Dean's eyes, though. "We didn't _win_ this, Cas. We lost pretty fucking spectacularly."

Castiel learns from Dean every day; he certainly never thought of things this way - to him, a battle won always meant a victory, and it isn't until this moment that he realizes how incomplete that belief was. To Dean, killing Meg isn't a victory, but rather a failure. 

But it's not only Dean's battle to fight; Dean isn't indebted to the City and its citizens, and doesn't owe them his life. Castiel wants to tell Dean so, but he doesn't know how; before he can even begin to look for words, Dean sinks onto the bed and lets out a long, shaky breath. 

"Let's not talk about it," he says. "I'm too fucking exhausted to talk about it." He points at the pile of clothes without looking up, his eyes closed. "Take something from the pile over there, 'cause your suit is kind of dirty. No offence. Sorry for getting blood on it." 

Cas is staying; he's now more certain than ever that he is not leaving Dean as long as Dean wants him around. By the time Castiel's suit is discarded on the floor, replaced with an old t-shirt and a pair of worn sweats, Dean is fast asleep, exhaustion clear on his face even then. 

 

Dean wakes up confused. He expects to open his eyes and find himself in his apartment, but he doesn't - the mattress is too hard, anyway, and even the smell is all wrong. Dean turns his head and comes face to face with Cas, watching him from a safe distance on the opposite side of the bed, eyes bleary and half-lidded. 

"Dean, your phone is ringing," Cas tells him, his voice sounding even rougher than it usually does.

Dean groans and glares at him before he tries to pick himself off the bed and get to the heap of torn fabric that used to be his suit. "No shit, Sherlock," he says and grits his teeth when all his muscles seem to protest. 

Cas shifts behind him. "Dean, are you okay?" 

Of course he isn't, but when is he, ever? Dean can pick his own damn phone up; he palms at the shredded remnants of his suit until he finds the thigh holster and fishes his phone out. He squints at the brightly flashing screen, only now realizing how dark it still is - they must have only slept for minutes - and his heart skips a beat painfully. He picks up hastily and breathes into the receiver. "Sammy?" 

Sam's voice is high, panicked, and it makes Dean's skin crawl. "Dean! I need you to come. Please!" There's a - " There's a deafening crash in the background followed by Sam's panicked cursing and a female scream - probably Jess's. 

"Sam!" Dean barks into the phone and scrambles to his feet; he's aware of Cas doing the same, but his vision is tunneling oddly already, and he doesn't pay him much attention. There's blackness creeping around the edges of Dean's sight. " _Sam!_ "

He hears his brother say, "Get back into the bedroom - close the doors! Jess, now!" and then addressing Dean, more clearly. "Please get here, Dean - _fuck_ \- " 

There's another loud crash and the line cuts off. Dean stares in front of him, hand gripping the phone hard enough to make it creak in his palm. "Sam!" he yells into the dead phone after a moment of stunned silence. 

The doors are thrown open revealing Bobby, wild-eyed and wielding a shotgun. "What the _hell_ is going on here?" he snaps. 

Dean ignores him and turns to Cas. "Cas, get me there!" 

Castiel watches him in shock, mouth hanging open. "Where?" 

Dean tells him the address, the one he knows by heart even though he's never personally been to Sam's place. He had Charlie guard that place like a national treasure - he can't understand what went wrong - he - "Get me to my brother, Cas. Now!" 

From the doorway, Bobby repeats, "What the hell is going on? Dean!"

Cas says, "Dean you're hurt, you should be resting - " 

"I don't care!" Dean yells. "Cas, please." 

Cas couldn't possibly say no. He dives for his suit, taking his weapon at least, before he stands up a takes a step closer to Dean. Dean, who is watching with wide, terrified eyes, chest heaving with heavy breaths. 

"Boy, don't you dare leave like that," Bobby snaps from where he's standing, and Castiel gives him one last apologetic look before clasping Dean's upper arm tightly and moving them. 

 

The landing is worse than Dean expects it to be; Cas stumbles forward and Dean, his balance thrown off in the first place and usually counting on Castiel to keep him steady even at the best of days, trips and nearly falls. It's only Cas's arms keeping him from tumbling to the ground like the useless sack of potatoes he is. 

"Dean," Cas says urgently, holding Dean around the shoulders. "I can't use my Powers." 

Dean's head snaps to the side to look at Cas, understanding dawning on him. " _Meg?_ " he croaks out after a beat of silence. "You think - _Meg?_ " When Cas nods, Dean bares his teeth in a snarl, feeling more furious than he has in years. "I iced the bitch! I heard her fucking neck snap!" 

He twists out of Castiel's grip before he can say anything and starts running towards Sam's house, slower than he would like. He hears Cas call his name and then break into a run, following him. 

Dean's out of breath long before he reaches the building, but he doesn't stop - he ignores the ache in his legs, the way his head pounds like it might explode any second. He ignore the sharp sting in his side. He kicks down the doors and stops, looking around frantically. 

Sam told Jessica to hide in the bedroom. Dean knows from the blueprints from Charlie that their master bedroom is on the first floor and he dashed towards the stairs, barely aware of Castiel following him. He takes the stairs by two, so out of breath his vision is slowly blackening. 

He has to lean on the railing so as not to keel over when he sees Meg - looking whole and alive, if a little disheveled - pressing Sam against one of the doors down the hallway, her fingers gripping his throat. Jess's body is lying lifeless a few feet further down the hall, slumped on the ground, golden hair splayed around her head like an angel's halo. 

"I came to find your brother and found something much sweeter, didn't I?" Meg purrs into Sam's face, but her tone is deadly - Dean can see her face distorted into a mask of rage. "We're going to have a lot of fun together, but first you're going to tell me where to find your dick of an older bro. I might even kill you and your pretty girl quickly if you're a good boy," she says and Dean's head spins. 

Because Sam has been right, all along. Dean knew that, deep inside - knew this might eventually happen. Some psycho Super seeking revenge, and executing it on Sam instead of Dean. His whole life, Dean knew this was a possibility, yet he always refused to entertain it as a probable reality. 

He always thought he would go through life until he died bitter at the hands of some petty criminal, his biggest fear, and Sam's most effective weapon against Dean, never having come to fruition. But now Sam's eyes snap to the side and he looks at Dean, and Dean knows Sam has been right. Sam, Dad, Bobby - everyone. 

It was Dean who has always been wrong. 

Meg turns to follow Sam's line of vision, and her face stretches into a manic grin when her eyes land on Dean. "Ah, there he is!" she says sweetly, like Dean just crashed his own birthday party and not her attempt to strangle his brother. She looks somewhere past Dean's shoulder and tilts her head. "Clarence! How sweet of you to join us." 

Sam is pawing at Meg's wrist, trying to loosen her grip on his throat, but it's no use; Dean felt first-hand how impressive Meg's strength - surely another one of her Powers - actually is; there's a sharply throbbing arm by his side as a proof. 

Meg turns back to Dean and says, "Let's get this show on the road, shall we?" and leans closer to Sam, pressing her lips to his. 

Sam tries to fight, keeps his lips in a tight line, turns his face away, but it's useless; Dean sees his eyes widen and start to roll back the exact moment Meg starts doing whatever it is that she does. Sam's fingers stop clawing at Meg's wrist. 

Dean screams, an odd, throaty shout, something between Sam's name and a wordless cry. He scrambles into a run, but doesn't have the advantage he did in the docks. 

Meg simply flings her arm out, the back of her hand colliding with the side of Dean's face with such strength that sends Dean nearly flying. He crashes into the opposite wall and falls to the ground, stunned with pain; his vision whitens out around the edges and even his hearing seems to be all shot. He can hear Cas talking, but can't make out any actual words. 

He turns to his back slowly, gritting his teeth against the pained sounds threatening to come out of his throat. He pushes himself to his elbows and looks first at Sam, slumped on the ground close to where Meg has been strangling him a moment before, then at Cas, slowly backing down the stairs, eyes trained on Meg. 

Their eyes meet for only a second, and Cas's face changes - his brows furrow in determination and he turns and runs. Meg yells after a him and follows, not sparing a glance to either Dean nor Sam. 

Dean grits his teeth and turns back to his brother's lifeless form. He pushes to his knees and crawls over to Sam. He gasps out Sam's name and shakes him by the shoulder, presses two fingers to his pulse. 

Sam doesn't stir. He doesn't even breathe. "Sammy!" Dean croaks out shaking him again, more violently now, while his fingers tremble. He pushes his hands to Sam's brow, to his cheek, to his chest - his heart fluttering hopelessly when it doesn't move - and tries to use his powers, screws his eyes shut and screams with the effort - 

But nothing happens. 

 

Castiel runs in front of Sam and Jessica's house, and turns around, stupidly relieved when he sees Meg following behind him. She seems to be in no rush now that he's stopped, walking slowly, prowling with a small smile, like a predator. 

"Leaving your _friend_ behind," she says, shaking her head. "I didn't think you'd be such a coward. I'm disappointed, Clarence."

He says, "That is not what I've done." He palms the hilt of his blade, hidden behind his thigh, hopefully out of Meg's sight. She doesn't seem to notice it; her eyes are trained on Castiel's face with morbid curiosity, watching him like she's hungry. 

Meg arches her eyebrow, casting a sideway glance at the house behind her. "Oh, yeah - you're _distracting_ me, giving them a chance to escape, am I right?" she says and smirks. 

With wide eyes, Castiel watches as the the house goes up in flames; Meg doesn't even move, except for the grin that grows even wider on her face. 

"Now you've abandoned them," she says with glee. 

Castiel has a second to try to come up with a plan; he saw what Meg did to Dean when he approached her inside the house, and he knows he only has one chance to overpower her. 

Meg takes that decision from Castiel's hands, though. In a second, Meg is directly in front of him and her fingers snake around his throat. "But don't you worry - I'll deal with you really quickly, and then I'll take good care of your friends," she says, her mouth so close to his he can feel her breath hot against his lips. 

Castiel can feel his consciousness leave him, much like the last time Meg made direct contact with his skin, and despite the fight he puts up against the effect she has on him, he knows he doesn't have much time. He isn't Dean; he doesn't hesitate, doesn't let himself linger on what he's about to do. He sinks the blade, hidden behind him until now, into Meg's abdomen. Its hilt is so slippery in Castiel's palm it almost slips out of its grip. 

Meg lets out a strangled sound, her eyes fixed on Castiel's; she looks shocked, like she can't believe Castiel would defend himself, wouldn't just let her suck the life right out of him. He sinks to the ground with her weight as Meg's knees buckle and lies her down, the blade still buried in her body. 

He doesn't let himself linger on the feeling of regret; it's not the first time he has had to take a life in combat, after all. He watches her as the life drains out of her again, and wonders if it's the last time, or if she will be back, if resurrection is one of her abilities. 

There will be time to deal with her, now that they know it's a possibility, but that will be later; now, Meg is gone and her Powers with her, whatever grip they had on them vanishing like smoke. 

Castiel exhales a sigh of relief, of exhaustion; in his peripheral vision, he can see Sam and Jessica's neighbors run out of their houses. The unison cry when the flames rise like a beast that lost its chain comes as no surprise, then. 

Still, Castiel's heart flutters with dread, and he flies. 

 

Sam starts breathing several seconds later. 

Dean gives up on trying to carry him out. He pushes himself to his feet but his legs are unsteady, and he knows he would just crumble if he even tried to lift Sam's body off the ground - he settles for putting him in the recovery position, and limps over to Jessica to do the same for her. 

He hopes that when someone comes to collect them, it's going to be Cas instead of Meg. 

He understand now why Cas froze the way he did in the docks; Dean feels useless - and empty, like a burned out shell - now that he can't use his Powers. He can't call for help, can't help Sam himself but doesn't dare leave him. He misses Charlie. He hopes Cas is alive. 

When the house bursts into flames, he starts to doubt it, and the thought terrifies him more than he thought possible. 

He watches as the flames slowly lick up the walls, and for a moment, Dean is four years old again. Jessica's hair, spilling across the ground in yellow waves, is his mother's hair, the door behind him leads to his old room, the one in front of him to Sammy's nursery. 

His instincts _scream_ at Dean to get to Sam, get him to safety.

It takes Dean a while to shake the horror off; he grits his teeth and bites out a harsh, "Come on, come _on_ ," before he pulls Jess further away from the wall and hopes it's enough, hopes Cas will come soon. 

He runs to Sammy, stumbling over his own feet; his lungs feel like they're full of smoke, though that's only curling under the ceiling so far. It won't be long before the heat becomes too much, before the smoke fills out their airways for real and not just in Dean's mind. 

Dean doesn't know what to do. He feels nothing like a hero - he feels like a scared little kid, too stunned and frightened to save his brother. 

He curls over Sam's body when the house creaks dangerously, and croaks out. "Come on, Sammy!" 

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean lifts his head and yells, " _Castiel!_ " but Cas doesn't come, either. Instead, something snaps in the air - he feels like he can take a breath again for the first time in years, if only momentarily. He presses his hand to Sam's forehead and laughs hoarsely when he feels the Powers course through his body - up until the moment they seem to hit the same wall they did when Dean attempted to heal Lily Baker several weeks ago. 

"No," he says and presses his palm, clammy and shaking, more firmly to Sam's skin. The flames are growing bigger and brighter around him, the roar almost deafening now. "Come on, Sam, don't check out on me now." 

Dean closes his eyes. He's going to save his brother if it's the last thing he does. He owes him that much, and he's going to push past whatever walls death is setting up around him if it kills him. _You better get here in time, Cas,_ he thinks and frowns in concentration. 

Nothing happens. "No." Dean shakes his head. He feels exhausted and defeated, scared out of his mind. "I'm not letting you die," Dean says to Sam's unmoving form. Screw exhaustion. Screw logic, and screw life and death. He curls over Sam's body, presses one palm to his cheek, the other to his heart, beating faintly in Sam's chest, and prays to a God he doesn't believe in to let this work, to please let his Powers work. He knows Sam is alive, that part of him is still inside him, waiting to be brought back to the surface, and Dean reaches for it like a starving man. 

His head throbs, and he thinks he feels something crack inside his skull; there's a trickle of something liquid running down his upper lip, the flow strong enough to register even over the heat, over the sweat on Dean's face. 

The chill of death he meets knocks him nearly sideways, but he doesn't let himself; he pushes harder, pushes way past it. 

The flames around roar like a wild animal, trying to claw at them. Dean ignores it.

When he's done his vision is greying out, and he feels exhausted beyond belief. He feels bone-weary and tired and slumps to the side, his eyes crossing in his head. 

He hears Sam gulp in a lungfull of breath and hopes it won't hurt him in the long run, but his last thought is with Cas; he thinks he can see his silhouette in his peripheral vision before his eyes close, and he would grin if he felt strong enough to do so - of course Cas _won_. He wants to say, _That's my boy,_ wants to smile at Castiel and pat his shoulder and kiss him, but even when his lips move, no sound comes out.

Dean wonders if he's dying.

 

Dean is at Bobby's place when he wakes up, the first thing he notices is the burn in his throat; the coughing fit that follow is long and painful and Dean gasps through it, eyes screwed shut. Someone helps him into a sitting position and keeps him upright once Dean's done coughing. 

Dean cracks one eye open and comes to face with Cas's worried expression. His shoulders sag in relief, and tries to smirk but fails. 

"You're finally awake," Cas tells him and sits back, although his hand doesn't really leave Dean's shoulders. There is a glass of water pushed at him, and Dean drinks like he's been dying for it. "How are you feeling?" 

Dean wants to say, _Like crap heated over,_ but he thinks of heat and the memories of _flames_ and _smoke_ and _Sam lying unmoving on the floor_ come rushing back to him like a flood. He reaches out blindly and turns to Cas, trying to keep his eyes open against the sting. "Sam," he croaks out, voice oddly hoarse. Even that single word is painful. 

"Sam is fine. He's in the hospital for mild smoke inhalation, but he's fine." 

Dean thinks he might faint again. Sam is going to be fine. Cas is here with him and seems okay. Dean closes his eyes and leans against him. "And Meg?" he asks. 

Cas doesn't say anything for a moment. "I killed her," he says, then. "I don't know if she is going to stay that way, though. Charlie is keeping track of her now." 

Dean says, voice low and dangerous, "Good." 

Castiel shakes his head. "No, it isn't," he tells Dean; he knows that if the circumstances were different, not as close to home for Dean as they are, he wouldn't have said that.

Dean's lips thin, but he lets it slide. "What happened?" he asks. 

Cas takes a deep breath before he starts talking; he tells him about Meg, and then about how he found Dean, collapsed next to his brother. "I thought you were dead, Dean," he tells him, voice low and serious. "I carried you and Sam out, but - I tried to go back for Jessica," he says. "But before I could, the building collapsed." He's looking at Dean very somberly, very regretfully. "I'm sorry. I didn't get there in time." 

Dean didn't really know Jess - has only met her that one time - but she was Sam's girl. Dean feels numb with the knowledge that she's gone, and that Sam is now probably alone in a hospital room knowing this. 

"It's not your fault," he says dully, his voice flat and emotionless. "You're not the one Meg was looking for." 

"Dean - " Castiel starts but Dean cuts him off. 

"I need to speak to my brother." 

"I think you should rest. Bobby insists that mild smoke inhalation doesn't warrant a hospital stay, but you should - " 

"Cas," Dean snaps. "I need to talk to Sam. Please." 

Cas opens his mouth but it's in that moment that Bobby bursts into the room, red in the face with indignant fury. 

"Freaking dumbass!" he snaps at Dean. "Almost getting yourself killed! Again! One day I'm gonna get tired of your sorry ass dragging blood and mud all over my couch." 

He blows through the room like a tornado and makes Dean change his clothes before he snaps, "I'm getting the car ready. We're going to see your brother and you're gonna talk, or I swear I'll strangle the both of you," and leaves. 

Cas sighs. "He's been very upset and worried when I brought you in yesterday night," he tells him, because apparently Dean's slept through most of the day. "He wasn't very excited about me staying, either," he adds, but it sounds more amused than anything. Cas is smiling at him softly, but there's still something heavy clouding over his features that Dean can't quite decipher now. 

He frowns. "I'm glad you did," he says and Cas's smile widens for a fraction of a second. 

"Me too," he says. 

Dean shakes his head. "I'm mean it, dude," he says and reaches out, grabbing Cas's wrist. He squeezes. "Thank you. For everything. For saving Sam's life. _And_ mine." Dean grins weakly. "Countless times."

Cas's lips quirk. "It was my pleasure." 

 

Bobby drives on the way to hospital. Cas flew off right before they left, after making sure Dean would be okay, saying he has to visit and placate his sister. Dean sent his regards, smirking, but he doesn't feel very humorous now, riding shotgun in Bobby's old Chevelle. 

Sam must hate him. Dean will be surprised if Sam even allows Dean to see it, and if he does, it will only be to chew Dean out properly. 

Dean will deserve every minute of it. 

"How am I supposed to look him in the face?" he says, his eyes stinging in a way that has nothing to do with all the smoke he's been exposed to yesterday. "I killed his girlfriend. Fuck. I - " 

"Firstly," Bobby says, "you didn't _kill_ his girlfriend. That pyrokinetic lady killed his girlfriend. Secondly, don't you dare chicken out, boy. Even if he can't forgive you for whatever part you played in what happened to poor Jessica, you still owe him the decency to show up." 

Dean swallows and tries with all his might to keep his lips from trembling. His throat aches so much Dean feels like grabbing at it and ripping it out just to make it stop. 

"Boy," Bobby says after a while of listening to Dean gulp for air. "It might go better than you think." 

Dean just shakes his head. 

 

Sam does allow Dean to see him, and Dean is terrified. Faced with the door to Sam's room, however, he can't help but let his older brother's instincts kick in and push inside the room, eager to make sure it really is Sam inside, alive and whole. 

Sam is alive and whole, but he looks horrible. He looks even worse than Dean imagined he would - eyes red-rimmed, skin ashen and clammy, arms trembling. Sam pushes himself to a sitting position when he sees him. "Dean!" he says, his voice just as hoarse as Dean's. 

Then the tears start. 

"Sammy," Dean says and takes a few steps closer to his brother, but he still doesn't dare to close the space between them entirely. He hovers uselessly next to Sam's bed, fingers of his unbroken hand curling and uncurling by his side. "Sam, man, I'm so sorry," he starts but Sam waves his hand. 

"No, man, it's not your fault," Sam says, eyes big and shiny and focused on Dean's. "It's not any more your fault than it is mine," he adds. 

Dean blinks, shaking his head. "What are you talking about, Sammy? Meg, she was - she was after _me_. You were right all along, I should have known and I'm - " 

"I knew it would happen," Sam cuts in and his voice breaks halfway through the sentence. 

"I know," Dean says brokenly. "I should have - " 

Sam grabs at Dean's wrist, gritting through his teeth. "No, Dean, I mean I knew _about Meg_. I knew she was coming." His eyes shine with unshed tears.

Dean stares. "What?" 

"I knew it would happen. I've been - having these _dreams_ ," he says, swallowing. The tears have stopped now, but Sam's eyes are still glassy, threatening to well over. "For weeks. I would dream about stuff and they would come true, and - " Sam shakes his head and hangs it. "But I kept wishing it was just a fluke." He looks back up, hopeless eyes trained on Dean like they're kids again, and Sam just scraped his knee and is waiting for Dean to make it all better. "I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to be _safe_ ," he says in a tight voice and then he's gone again, sobs wrecking through his body. 

Dean watches his brother cry like his world has ended - and it might have as well - and tries to connect all the clues Sam has just given him with the reality of what is happening. His brother is a Super. It seems like too cruel a punishment and Dean's heart breaks, because he's never wanted this for him - Sammy wasn't supposed to deal with keeping a part of himself a secret, he wasn't supposed to bury his fiancée at twenty-four. 

Dean sits down and puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing it. "It's not your fault," he tells him quietly. "You couldn't have known. It takes time before you understand your Powers. Trust me, I know from experience." 

Sam scowls at him. "Dean, you were seven years old." 

Dan shakes his head. "Doesn't really matter." 

"I called you the moment I realized it was happening," Sam says. "But I guess it was too late. I should have called sooner, I should have told you and paid attention, I should have done _something_ , but I just - I just kept thinking it would go away if I ignored it. And now Jess is - _Jess is_ \- " 

Dean repeats to him, "It's not your fault. It's not your fault, Sammy," until Sam is woozy from crying, and he says it long after Sam has fallen asleep. He thinks he will repeat it as long as it takes for his brother to believe it - that this isn't a punishment for shunning Dean, for ignoring his own Powers. 

He shushes Sam when he mumbles about God and fate, and stays until he gets kicked out. 

 

Sam gets released the next day. They both end up at Bobby's because apparently, Meg had burned down Dean's whole apartment building before heading over to Sam and Jessica's place to demand answers. 

It's difficult, living under the same roof not only with his brother, but also with Bobby who takes to spending most of his time in the garage - that Dean is effectively banned from - because both he and Sam are guilty as hell and tip-toeing around the topic like the professionals at emotional repression they probably are. 

Sam, for the most part, is quiet; sometimes he tries to force a smile or a laugh, but it never lasts long. Dean follows him around like a lost puppy while Sam makes preparations for Jess's funeral together with her parents - who probably wouldn't be as nice to Dean if they knew what his role in their daughter's death was. 

Cas makes himself scarce. He shows up once, the day Sam is released from the hospital, only to get yelled at by Bobby for, "Barging in like he owns the place. Goddamn Angel." 

Cas is actually one of the very few things Dean has seen to amuse Sam. He watches Cas parade around in his flip flops with his eyebrows all the way in his hairline, and then turns to Dean while Cas is busy listening to Bobby scream his ear off. "That's _Angel_?" he asks in a hushed tone? 

Dean shrugs and rolls his eyes, but can't help the smile creeping across his face entirely against his will. He pretends Sam doesn't look at him knowingly, like he's onto something Dean himself doesn't know - or refuses to acknowledge. 

Cas flies off not long after. He interrogates Dean about his general well-being and then awkwardly attempts to apologize to Sam, who waves him off, all signs of humor gone from his face again. Then Cas excuses himself; he hesitates only for a moment, eyes lingering on Dean's before he's gone. 

Dean misses his company when Cas is not there. 

 

He doesn't get to see Castiel until about a week later. By that time, he feels restless, itching for some kind of action - he hasn't been out since their last confrontation with Meg because his suit is shredded and his headset is, apparently, fried by Meg's sheer presence, rendering it unusable for Charlie and her Powers. 

"Who's patrolling in the City?" Dean asks her one day. "Is it Cas? _Alone?_ " 

"No, it's not Cas," Charlie assures him. "And it's hilarious how worried you are he might be doing it alone when you've been doing it alone for years. Don't worry about it. I have it under control." 

"Yeah? And who is it, then?" Dean pauses. "It's not you, isn't it?" 

He can't tell if the noise that comes out of Charlie is a horrified snort or a laugh. "God, no. But like I said. Don't worry. I'll tell you later," and with that she's gone. 

Castiel appears during an early afternoon, right behind Dean; Dean nearly turns around and punches him. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do this?" he snaps.

"You always seem very excited to see me," Cas says instead. "Anna says hello." 

Dean drags his hand down his face, eyes closed in mild exasperation. "Cas, I _am_ happy to see you," he says. "Like, really. I've been going out of my mind with boredom. But I swear to god, if you don't stop startling the shit out of me, I will deck you one of these days." 

Cas nods, but if the small smirk on his lips is anything to go by, he's going to keep at it if only to see Dean tries to actually hit him and not miss. "You're packing," he says. "Have you found a place to stay?" 

Dean shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. "Sam did, though. He's out there today, checking out it." 

"Good. How is he?" 

Dean shrugs weakly. _His fiancée is dead,_ he wants to say. "Still the same," he says. 

Castiel nods and then they fall into silence; Dean continues to throw his things scattered all around the tiny room. 

"Are you leaving somewhere?" Cas asks after a moment when it becomes clear Dean won't share the information without prompting. 

Dean looks up from where he's bent over his duffel, stuffing in his working boots. "On a road trip," he says and winks. "You wanna come?" 

"Roadtrip where?" 

"To see Ellen and get my new suit," Dean says. 

"Oh," Cas says. "Where are we headed, then?" he asks and raises one hand, palm extended towards Dean. 

Dean takes an instinctive step back. "Whoa, no, dude. We're going by _car_. I'm taking Baby out for a joyride - god knows she deserves it. Those city roads are no good for her." 

Cas frowns, like Dean is being deliberately confusing on purpose. "Who's Baby?" he asks. 

Dean's grin grows wider. "You haven't met Baby yet? Come on, then, you're in for a real treat."

 

As it turns out, Cas treats Dean's car with something even colder than mistrust. "I fail to see how riding a car is is more comfortable than flying," he tells Dean, squinting at his car with apprehension. 

"It's relaxing," Dean tells him, leaning against the open driver's door. "Now get in." 

The Roadhouse is not very far from the City; about only an hour away after they finally manage to manoeuvre out of the City's horrible traffic and onto the open road. By that time, though, Cas is nearly squirming in his seat - he sits titled towards the window for a minute, then tries to squeeze himself onto the bench seat with his legs crossed. 

Dean gives up when Cas props his feet onto the dashboard. "Dude," he tells him. "If you told me you would be such a crybaby about this, I wouldn't have asked you to come." 

"I'm hardly a crybaby," Cas replies and Dean smirks without taking his eyes off the road. "And I wanted to go, but the ride is - " 

"Boring," Dean says. 

"Slow," Cas corrects him. "Confining." 

Dean's eyebrows arch. "Huh," he says. "Of course you'd think that. You know, I could step on the gas, go a bit faster." 

"Please, don't," Cas says instantly. 

Dean turns to look at Cas, fighting a smirk. "Alright, then. Do you want to stop for a while, stretch your legs? I could swear I saw an - " 

Cas is sitting with his spine so straight it's unnatural, his eyes trained on the road in front of him like he's expecting Dean to crash the Impala at any second. "Dean, just drive," he says exasperatedly, and Dean snorts, turning his eyes back to the road. 

The silence that follows isn't nearly as awkward as Dean thought it would be; he never really believed in companionable silence, but the quiet moments in the car are exactly that. After a few minutes of it and Dean drumming his fingers rhythm-lessly on the steering wheel, Cas asks, "Who exactly is Ellen?" 

Dean glances at him and shrugs. "She's - I don't know, really. She's kinda like Edna Mode," he says and sighs when he sees Cas's confused expression. "She runs The Roadhouse, a pretty run-down bar few more miles down this road, and on the side she, Jo, and Ash help out Supers who need it. It's kinda hard to explain." 

"Why?" Cas asks, frowning. "Who are Jo and Ash?"

"Ellen's daughter and this - dude. You'll see for yourself soon enough." Dean shrugs again, throws his arm out. "And beats me. I never asked." He turns to Cas again. "Ellen's kinda scary." 

"This road trip is starting to sound less and less appealing," Cas tells him. 

Dean sighs but refrains from commenting about Cas's complaints again. "You know what we need?" he says. "We need some tunes." And he reaches over to switch on the player. 

Cas's appalled expression is what finally breaks Dean and he throws his head back and laughs, and feels better than he has the whole week before. 

He could swear that beside him, Cas is smiling. 

 

Unsurprisingly, they don't crash before getting to The Roadhouse. Dean parks recklessly because the parking lot is empty at this time of day, anyway, and walks trough to the door with Cas following closely behind him - only to find the bar and all its residents in a freaking mayhem. 

"Have you _lost your mind_?" Ellen roars from where she's standing behind the bar, nearly crimson in the face with fury, glaring at Jo. Jo is facing away from the door but clearly upset, her arms thrown out. 

Ash is sitting further away on the old pool table, and watches the whole thing like it's an extremely amusing piece of reality television. He waves when Dean walks in. 

"What the hell?" Dean says and stops in his track, eyebrows raised. "Did we come in at a bad time?" 

"No, your timing is perfect," Ellen snaps and turns back to Jo, pointing at Dean. "This is how you wanna end up? No offence, Dean." 

Dean closes and opens and closes his mouth, at a loss for words. From behind him Cas says, "I'm confused." 

Dean turns to him. "That makes two of us," he tells him.

"That's not the same thing!" Jo retorts, her voice raised, not evening turning to look at Dean. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you just _not_ say you were moving to the City to become a Superhero?" 

"Wait, what?" Dean says, frowning. 

"That's not why I'm moving out," Jo snaps. 

" _You're a Super?_ " Dean cuts in. "Can someone _please_ explain to me what the hell is going on?" 

Ellen turns to him. "My daughter decided it's a good idea to run off with _your_ handler," she says, her voice arrogant when she mentions Charlie, "and get herself killed while running around in a clown suit." 

"That's my girlfriend you're talking about, Mom!" Jo says. 

"I don't mind that she's your girlfriend! I mind that she talked you into this - this _madness_!" Ellen shakes her head, lips in a thin line. "I wouldn't have let you stay over if I knew what you two were up to."

"Charlie is teaming up with Jo?" Dean asks. "What about me?" 

Jo turns to scowl at him. "As if you needed Charlie ever since you and him paired up," she says, pointing at Cas.

Dean stares with his mouth hanging open. "I think I need I drink," he says, and Ash jumps down from the pool table, waving Dean over enthusiastically. 

"I got you covered, my friend," he says, and walks over to the bar to pour Dean a glass. 

 

"So you're a Super," Dean tells Jo over a glass of whiskey, several minutes after the chaos inside the Roadhouse has finally calmed down. "And you and Charlie - " 

Jo nods. "Sorry we didn't tell you sooner, but it's not like this has been going on for long, so." She shrugs. 

Cas is standing by the bar, getting drilled for info by Ellen and a grinning Ash, who mostly seems content watching everything from the sidelines. 

Jo follows his line of sight. "I think she's just asking him about his suit," she assures Dean with a smirk. "She's been talking about it for years now, so don't worry." 

Dean startles when he realizes Jo noticed him watching Cas; he clears his throat and grins at her craftily. "Uh, yeah. Just so you know, I'm very flattered you want to follow in my footsteps," he says, changing the topic, and dodges the slap Jo aims at him. 

"Not _yours_ ," she says, glaring. Her voice sombers, then. "My dad used to do this. Guess that's why Mom is so upset about it." 

Dean's grins slips of his face, too, when he hears the change in Jo's tone. "It can get pretty ugly. And don't get me wrong, Charlie is great - hell, Charlie is amazing - but, when push comes to shove, it's gonna be you risking your neck out there." Jo opens her mouth, ready to protest, and Dean throws his arms up in surrender. "I just want you to know what you're getting into." 

Jo glares at him, and her voice is cold when she speaks. "You don't think I can do it," she says. 

"I don't think you know _what_ you're doing," Dean tells her. "There's a difference. Being a Superhero is not like the comics tell you it is. You're gonna get hurt. You're gonna get lonely. You're gonna be broke. And miserable." 

Jo's watching him with her head tilted to the side. "You don't look all that miserable to me now. All things considered, I mean." 

Dean knows Jo has a point. With all that's happened, Dean should be feeling terrible - and he is, a lot of the time. When he walks in on his brother, spaced out in Bobby's living room an album full of Jessica's photos that her parents gave Sam since all of his had been lost in the fire. When he reads the papers and sees articles mentioning his own apartment building burning to the ground. 

The past week was horrible. Dean's been in pain more often than not and coughing up black soot for days, while trying to keep his grieving brother afloat and not sinking under the weight of his own guilt. If Dean's life was a struggle, the past week summarized it perfectly. 

But today - today Dean feels fine. He feels _good_. He turns to the bar and looks at Cas to find him staring at Dean with a mildly horrified expression on his face; he looks freaked out and like he might need rescuing from Ellen's prying grasps. 

Dean smiles, then smiles wider. He turns to Jo. "Yeah," he says. "I guess I'm not." 

 

Ellen eventually lets them go. She takes Dean's old duffel bag and gives him a new one, glares when he takes it from her. "Be careful with it," she grits out. "I don't care how much money your handler scrapes together, or how, but I'm not here to make you one suit after another because you're reckless, boy." 

"I don't know why everyone thinks I'm doing it on purpose," he says, scowling. 

Cas turns to him. "Because, often, you are." 

"See? Even Feathers agrees with me," Ellen tells him but then she smiles and claps him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself. And visit us more often." 

She moves to close to door behind herself, but Dean stops her. "Ellen, wait. About Jo - " 

Ellen cuts him off instantly, her features hardening. "Nah. Don't even start, boy, this ain't none of your business," and bangs the door closed, leaving Dean and Cas standing on the dusty, empty parking lot. 

"That went well," Dean says, stunned. 

"Are your visits always this chaotic?" Cas asks him. 

Together, they walk to the Impala and Dean throws his new duffel into the trunk. "No," he snorts. "Today was a bit special." He walks over to the front door and turns to Cas, seeing his hesitate on the other side of the car. Dean leans against the Impala's roof. "You gonna fly back?" 

Cas, for a second, looks like he might. "I won't if you promise not to turn on any music," he says after a beat of silence. 

Dean laughs and shakes his head. "Yeah, we'll see about that," he says and opens the door, slides behind the wheel and grins when he sees Cas do the same. "Charlie obviously expects you to stick around, what with teaming up with another Super and all, so you don't just get to leave now. You're stuck with me." He grins when he puts the car in gear. 

"Is the car going to be a permanent fixture of this relationship?" Cas asks flatly. 

Dean says, "Yes," and then turns around to face Cas so fast his neck cracks. "Wait, what?" 

Cas grins at him before he turns back to look out of the windshield.


	7. Epilogue

"Dean, you can come sit closer." 

Dean shakes his head from where he's sitting in the middle of the heliport, a box of Chinese take out in his lap, and takes another bite. He grins when he sees Cas squint against the sunlight. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm just fine sitting right here." 

Cas is perched on the edge of the heliport, his back to the sunset. "It's perfectly safe here." 

"No, it's perfectly safe _here_ , watching your back from afar," Dean replies, chewing his noodles. 

Cas scowls and Dean could swear his whole body gets involved with the gesture. "You're being stubborn on purpose just to piss me off," he says clippedly, and Dean barks out a surprised laugh, almost choking on the food in his mouth. 

"You know me so well," he says, smirking, but gets up. He sighs, brushing the dirt and dust off the back of his suit, before he slowly walks over to Cas. 

They're on top of the same skyscraper that Cas dropped him onto all those months ago, and Dean marvels how much has changed since then. He can't remember a time when he didn't know Cas, couldn't count on him to have his back or point out even the most clear, awkward things to Dean. 

The last time Dean was here, he was lonely, bitter and desperate; and while Dean is still bitter, he now has Cas and Charlie, Jo and even Sam to watch his back and pat his shoulder when something goes extremely well or horribly wrong. 

Dean doesn't dare to think about it much or often, but he's pretty happy now. 

He drops down next to Cas gingerly. "If you fucking push me," he threatens him, even though he _know_ s Cas wouldn't. He looks down onto the City beneath them, buzzing with life, and feels sick to his stomach. His hands start to tremble. 

Cas is smiling, obviously happy that for once, Dean did what Cas told him to. "There is another level below us," he reminds Dean, and Dean _knows_ that, too, but still - he looks down and realizes he's about one thousand feet up in the air. 

He shudders and leans into Cas. "Yeah, and if I fall from here I'm gonna roll right off and plummet like five million feet to my death." 

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean and opens his mouth, surely to say something as sappy as, _I wouldn't let you fall, Dean,_ (and Dean must be seriously whipped if he can hear Cas's voice clear as bell in his head, right?) when their headsets crackle in their ears. 

"Sam called," Charlie tells them, straight to business, and passes on Sam's latest vision quickly. "He says the vision is pretty delayed again, so you should get there, _ASAP_. Jo is already on something else, so it's just the two of you this time. Be careful!" and with that she's gone again, like she usually is nowadays. 

Dean frowns. "Dammit, more wasted food," he says, eyeing his noodles sorrowfully. "Whenever we buy something to eat, we never actually get to eat it, man. This is fucked up." 

Castiel stands up abruptly and Dean almost yelps, gripping the edge of the heliport with both hands. "I don't know understand why you're so upset, Dean," he says. "You have like three noodles left in the box." He extends a hand towards Dean and when Dean takes it, Castiel pulls him up; with the way Dean's knees shake, he nearly ends up in Castiel arms. 

He smirks, ready to turn it into a joke, when Cas leans in quickly and kisses him; it's not unexpected, not anymore - they might have started off rocky and uncertain, but now these touches are more welcome than they are shocking. It still leaves Dean feeling thrilled, craving; it's like a promise of something more, something less brief than the simple press of lips against lips, and Dean melts into the touch. 

When they pull apart, Cas is watching him and his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Dean smirks. "Let's go save some people," he says, and pulls the hoodie of his costume over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my super self-indulgent DeanCas BigBang 2013! I would like to thank the stars for aligning in such a way that allowed me to stay off tumblr long enough to finish this. I would like to thank everyone that supported me through the process. I would like to thank Sparrow for figuring out that bribery is the easiest way to motivate me, for listening to my whining and for being an amazing friend to me. 
> 
> But most of all, I would like to thank to my amazing artist, [Elsa](http://gdayidjits.tumblr.com/). She's worked miracles with what little I could offer her, and has been supportive and understanding throughout my whole bullshit writing process. Go leave her praise for [the amazing art](http://gdayidjits.livejournal.com/557.html) she has created for this story right now. Thank you, bby, and I'm sorry you had to put up with my crap! You are amazing. 
> 
> Secondly, a huge thank you goes to my beta, [sleepypercy](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/), who took the piece of garbage I produced and helped me whip it up into shape. Without you, I would have been lost and this story would have been unreadable. I can't express the depth of my gratitude for your help and encouragement. 
> 
> Thank you both so much. You guys are actual real-life Superheroes.


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